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THE STORY OF A THOUSAND- MILE 
SADDLE TRIP UP AND DOWN THE TEXAS 
FRONTIER IN PURSUIT OF A RUNAWAY 
OX, WITH ADVENTURES BY THE WAY 

36* flDtller 

;i 



Published origirieLlt^ as a Serial Story in THE 
NATIONAL STOCKMAN & FARMER, Pittsburgh 

THE AXTELL-RUSH PUBLISHING 
COMPANY ^ Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania 








Two Gopiss ReceivciCi 

. MAR 4 1908 


Gopyriicni cikti* 

7 

GUSS4 
2 . ^> / d ^ ^ 

COPY 8. 


Copyright, 1908 
By Lewis B. Miller 





THE SPOTTED OX RUNS AWAY. 


A t daybreak one morning, near the end of July, and less than a 
year after we had settled on the Little Pecan Creek, I was 
startled by a vigorous pounding oh the door of the east room 
of our double log cabin — the room where my younger brother and 
I slept — and heard father’s hearty voice saying: 

“Up with you, boys! Up! up! up! Crawl out! Slide out! Bounce ' 
out! Out you come!” 

“All right!” I managed to call back, though still half asleep. And 
a little later I emerged from the door, dressed, but with a boot and 
a sock in each hand, and sat down, drowsily, on the edge of the 
entry porch to put them on. 

“You’d better find the calves and get to milking as soon as you 
can,” mother remarked, from the door of the west room, where she 
had already begun breakfast. 

“Didn’t father go after the calves?” I inquired; for he was no- 
where about the house. I was now standing up, groping along the 
wall for my hat. There was not yet light enough to see much. 

“No. He spoke of -driving up the oxan" before they grazed off. 
He may bring the calves if he finds them and the oxen together; but 
you’d better not wait on him. Are you going to plow today?” 

“Yes, I expect to start to breaking new ground if we can find Lep 
and Coaly.” 

My hat was not on its accustomed nail; and after looking every- 
where without finding it, I reflected that the sun would hardly get 
very high before my return with the calves, and I started off bare- 
headed. 

As I passed out through the yard-gate, hatless, coatless and break- 
fastless, not once did it occur to me that I should be gone more than 
a few minutes. As a matter of fact, I was destined to be absent 
nearly two months, during which I should travel a thousand miles 
and more, and pass through adventures I had never so much as 
dreamed of. 

Crossing the creek at the ford I climbed the hill beyond and soon 
entered the woods. A few hundred yards farther on, and not far 
from the log schoolhouse, I came to a little prairie; and there, com- 
fortably beMed in the thick, tall grass, lay all but one of our dry 
cattle. Coaly, the black ox, was with them, but Lep, his yoke-mate, 
was nowhere to be seen. 

Wondering a little at this, I kept on, and after wandering about 
through the woods till the sun was shining against the upper tree- 


4 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


tops, I came upon the calves, all seven of them together. I had 
rounded them up and was just starting them toward home when 
father came out of the bushes close by. 

“Hello there, father! You’ve got on my hat!” I called out. 

“Yes, I’d discovered that. Mistook it for mine in the dark. 
Thought it wasn’t a very good fit.” He took off my broad-rimmed 
straw head-covering and handed it to me. “Haven’t seen anything 
of Lep, have you?” 

“No, sir, I haven’t. I noticed Coaly — ” 

“Yes, I found Coaly, down there at the little prairie, and I’ve been 
tramping about through the woods, thinking I might happen upon 
Lep. He likes to lie down by himself sometimes. How long has it 
been since you saw him?” 

“A week or ten days, I think, father. Lep and Coaly were both 
at the lick-log, I recollect. They don’t often come down to the pen 
now, unless they get salt-hungry.” 

“It looks a little suspicious,” father said, thoughtfully. “I’m 
afraid he may have run away again.” 

“But he couldn’t run far, hobbled as he is now,’* I remarked. 

“Yes, I know. He was hobbled. But rawhide has a way of 
stretching these dewy mornings. He may have lost his hobbles off. 
If he did, no telling how far he’s gone by this time. And now is 
when we need him worst, too. We ought to get all that new ground 
turned over before cotton opens. I’ll take a walk up toward the 
prairie and see if I can’t run across him.” 

“Now that you’re bare-headed, you’d better drive the calves home 
and let me look for Lep.” 

“All right,” father agreed, starting after the calves. But he turn- 
ed to add: “If you don’t find him around here, one of us will have 
to get a horse after breakfast and strike out on his trail, and keep 
after the rascal till we run him down. But we want to make sure 
that he’s really gone.” 

Father walked on after the calves, and I started off through the 
woods. Vic, my little dog, had been with father; but now she left 
him and followed me. I tramped on for more than a mile, listening 
constantly for the bell, till I reached the prairie.' But not a stroke 
of the big bell-clapper had I heard. 

At the edge of the prairie I happened upon our horses. Dick, my 
sorrel pony, walked straight up to me and rubbed his nose against 
me. He had been running on the range for a few months now and 
was fat and shiny. 

“Look here, Dick,” I remarked, “guess I’ll take a ride if you don’t 
object.” ' I 

Dick seemed willing enough, and I was quickly astride his round 
back. Of course there was neither saddle nor bridle. But I had 
taught him to turn when I leaned forward and slapped him lightly 
on the side of the head; so there was no trouble in guiding him. I 
intended to go home, and after eating my breakfast, and obtaining 
a saddle and bridle, I would start out in quest of the missing ox and 
keep riding till I found him. But after mounting the pony I decided 
to follow the edge of the prairie a few hundred yards, in the hope 
of hearing Lep’s bell. 

I did soon detect the dingdonging of a big bell; but it came from 
across the divide, from over in. the Bosque Creek country, and was 
so far away that I could not decide whether it was Lep’s bell or 
some other bell. However, it would not take long to ride over there, 
and I promptly headed Dick in that direction. 

The bell was traveling from me, and not till I had ridden two 
miles and more did I come up with the animal that wore it. Even 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


6 


before overtaking the bell I felt sure it was not Lep’s; and in that 
I was right. It was worn by a big red cow. 

Now I turned the pony’s head homeward. After riding several 
hundred yards, I came to Hank Richardson’s cabin. Before settling 
here Haijk had lived over on the Little Pecan, not far from us. He 
was a good friend of mine. 

His cabin was small, but at the north end was a large brush shed; 
and it was under this shed that he and his wife and children were 
just sitting down to breakfast as I rode up to the yard-fence. Peo- 
ple lived largely out of doors here during the warm season. Besides 
the table a b^ed stood under the shed. 

“Hello there! ’Light and' look at your saddle!” Hank called out, 
in tones that might easily have been heard a mile. Hank had a 
terrific voice. 

“Couldn’t see it if I did,” was my reply. “I’m looking for Lep. 
Haven’t seen anything of him around here, have you?” 

“Yes — no, not right around here. I’ve seen him, though — five or 
six days ago. I was down at Martin’s, and old Lep was standing 
under the shade of a tree, right in front of Martin’s house. I no- 
ticed him particularly, because I was a little surprised to see him 
there. But what made you go and sell your saddle and bridle?” 

I explained how I came to be riding without them, and Hank said: 

“Then get down and eat a bite of breakfast with us, and I’ll lend 
you mine. Don’t have much use for them anyhow. Off with you! 
Here’s a bridle now. You can hitch Dick up with this.” 

He caught up a bridle from the end of a log and came out to the 
fence. I was reluctant to stay, but Mrs. Richardson also insisted, 
and Hank said: 

“How many meals have I sat down to at your house? What under 
the sun do you want to ride all the way home for, when you can just 
as easily get breakfast here, and then go on over to Martin’s and 
find your ox? You can round up Lep and drive him home before 
you could go home and get back this far.” 

“But I’d have to come back to return your bridle and saddle; so 
it’s about as broad as it’s long,” I objected. 

“ No, you won’t have to return my bridle and saddle. Just let 
them stay over there till some time when you’re passing. No matter 
if it’s a month or two. Off you crawl, before I drag you off!” 

Hank’s hospitality was of a very hearty, almost violent, kind and 
I dismounted. After bridling Dick, and hitching him to a limb, I 
went in and ate with the family. Afterwards, while I was saddling 
the pony, Mrs. Richardson fed Vic. Then I mounted and started 
for Martin’s. But I soon stopped to shout back: 

“Hank, was Lep hobbled?” 

“Can’t say positively about that. Didn’t notice any hobbles, but 
I wasn’t right close to hftn. He might have been, or he might not.” 

I rode on. Martin lived four miles farther, in the valley of the 
Bosque, but on the. other side. On arriving at his house, I called 
“Hello!” Martin himself came to the door. 

“Have you noticed a spotted ox around here, with a bell on?” I 
inquired. 

“And with horns like that?” He reached out his arms at full 
length. 

“That’s the fellow — that’s the ox I’m looking for. He’s got about 
the longest horns I ever saw on a cow-brute. I can’t reach from tip 
to tip. Hank Richardson told me he saw him here in front of your 
house.” 

“Yes, that steer was here for a day or two. I noticed him licking 
at my salt-log once or twice. But he’s not here now. Four or five 


6 ‘ A CROOKED TRAIL 


days ago I took a ride over toward the prairie; and on my way back 
I met that spotted steer. He was following the main-traveled road 
and heading toward Lookout Gap. Chances are you’ll find him over 
about Kelly’s, at the edge of the prairie.” 

“Was he hobbled?” 

The man shook his head. “No, no hobbles. He was walking a 
good, steady gait.” 

“Then I’ll have a chase of it,” I answered, and was soon hurrying on. 

Kelly’s house was six or seven miles away, but it was the first 
one I came to. Only recently had the Comanche Indians ceased 
their raids here, and the country was still very thinly settled.^ 

Kelly was plowing cotton near the road, in a little field bristling 
with white-limbed, deadened trees. He was an acquaintance of my 
father’s, and I had seen him a few times. 

“Yes, I recollect that steer well enough,” he assured me, after I 
had described Lep. “Couldn’t help noticing that pair of horns. 
Don’t know when I’ve seen a longer pair. No matter where he goes, 
you can track him by his horns, if anybody sees him. It was four or 
five days ago that he stopped here. Guess you’ll just about run 
across him somewhere between here and the mountains. If you don’t 
find him standing under a live-oak, I’d advise you to go on to the 
gap yonder. Some springs there that never dry up, and it’s a great 
watering-place for cattle.” 

I was starting on, when Kelly said: 

“I’m going to ride over to the Little Pecan country after dinner. 
I’m agent for a nursery, you know. I talked with your father last 
spring, and he told me he might want some fruit-trees this coming 
fall. So I’m going to call on him and others and take their orders.” 

“If you’re going over there,” I said, “please be sure to tell the 
folks you saw me, and that I’m riding Dick and on Lep’s trail, and 
that they needn’t look for me till they see me.” 

“All right; I’ll tell your father what has become of you.” 

“And be sure to tell him I’m riding Dick.” Then I explained that 
I had started from home without anything, and had accumulated 
what I had on the way. 

Kelly laughed. “I’ll tell him how it is. And you don’t seem to 
have any lariat. If you’ll ride over to the house I’ll lend you mine. 
I’ve got a good one, fifty feet long. You can leave it here on your 
way back.” 

“It might come in pretty handy, and I’m much obliged to you, 
Mr. Kelly,” was my reply. And when he came with the rope I 
added : “But no telling when you’ll see your lariat again. I’m going 
to overhaul that ox, if it takes me all the rest of the summer.” 

“That’s all right,” he assured me. “I don’t expect to need it any 
time soon.” He coiled the rope neatly and handed it to me. 

I hung it on my saddle-horn and rode on. 

Kelly lived in the post-oak and black-jack woods, but the road soon 
led me out upon the high prairie. Ahead of me, and apparently 
less than a mile away, a range of low mountains, rising steeply up 
out of the prairie, stretched across my course. But I had traveled 
this road twice already, and knew that those mountains were twelve 
miles distant. 

The summer before father and I had made a wagon-trip up into 
the Little Pecan country, to look at the land father afterwards 
bought. And my first view of this whole region had been obtained 
from the top of those mountains. We had returned by a different 
road; but in the November following we had come again. This time 
we were moving — changing our home from within sight of the cap- 
itol building at Austin to this new and sparsely settled part of 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


7 


Texas. On the second trip father drove our heavily loaded covered 
wagon, while my brother and I rode behind, pushing along our little 
herd of twenty-seven cattle and two yearling colts. 

We had camped one night in one of those mountain-coves, near 
Lookout Gap, through which the road ran, and which was now in 
plain sight. As I well knew there was not a house from here to 
the mountains, and none till ten miles beyond. It was easier to 
live in the timber in those days than it was to haul wood and rails 
out upon the prairie. So the nearest house was twenty-two miles 
ahead. 

Lep was not one of the cattle we had driven into the country. 
Father had bought him and Coaly, for heavy plowing, soon after 
our arrival on the Little Pecan. About the beginning of warm 
weather, having been allowed to run out on the range with nothing 
to do for a good while, Lep had deserted Coaly, his work-mate, and 
started off across the country. It might have been mere restless- 
ness that made him go — the restlessness, or desire to travel, that 
often seizes animals, and especially horses and cattle, as well as 
people. But we knew that he and Coaly had been brought from 
somewhere in southwest Texas, three or four hundred miles away, 
and the natural inference' was that he was trying to get back to his 
old range. 

We had missed him soon after he started; and father had followed 
and overtaken him somewhere on this very prairie. Since then Lep 
had worn hobbles constantly. 

But now the hobbles were off, and he was gone again, with four 
or five days the start of me. If he had kept traveling steadily all 
this time, except when grazing or resting, he must be more than, a 
hundred miles ahead. It was important that no time be lost; other- 
wise I should have gone back and taken a new start. 

So I pushed on into the unsettled country, fearing that there was 
a long chase ahead of me, yet trying to persuade myself that Lep 
would be tempted by the water and fine pasturage to linger along 
his way, and that I should overtake him somewhere out here, before 
he had wandered many miles farther. 


CHAPTER 11. 


A NIGHT AT LOOKOUT GAP. 

T he farrstretching prairie which my hunt for the runaway ox had 
led me out upon was dotted over with long live-oak trees and 
little live-oak groves — dark-green islands in a sea of brighter 
green. Numerous bunches of long-horned cattle could be seen grazing 
here and there, or standing or lying in the shade of the live-oaks. 
Thinking that Lep might have sought companionship among some of 
these, I spent all the rest of the forenoon riding from one bunch to 
another, but without finding him. 

When at length my shadow, pointing due north, indicated the 
hour of noon, sharp hunger had attacked me, but not a bite of any- 
thing had I to appease it. Dick, I knew, must be even hungrier than 
I was. So I dismounted in the shade of a big, thick-topped, spread- 
ing live-oak. After removing saddle and bridle, I tied one end of 
Kelly^s lariat around the pony’s neck and the other end to a l«w- 
hanging limb. Luxuriant grass crowded close up to the tree, and 
even under it, and the little horse was soon eagerly filling himself. 

It was a splendid summer day. Now and then a slight breeze 
rippled the sea of grass around me. The sun shone brilliantly, 
hotly down, and the whole prairie was ringing with the voices of 
grass-hoppers and other cheerful sounds. After gazing at prairie 
and mountains for a while, as they shimmered in the heat, I threw 
myself down on the thickest grass, in the thickest shade. My little 
dog came and sat down close by. 

“Vic,” I said, “we can’t eat grass; so we might as well take a nap.” 
Vic wagged her tail responsively, and I stretched myself at full 
length, with my arm for a pillow, and was soon fast asleep. 

I must have .slept an hour or two. When I awoke, Dick had grazed 
his fill and was standing quietly in the shade. Vic was lying near 
me. The day was now at its hottest, and I waited half an hour or 
so longer before saddling up. While waiting I climbed to the very 
top of the live-oak and took a survey of the whole country, but failed 
to discover the object of my search. 

When at length I was riding on my general course was toward the 
mountains, but I kept zigzagging across the road, going out to every 
bunch of cattle I came in sight of for a mile or two on both sides. 

The sun was not very high when I arrived at Lookout Gap — a 
break or pass through the mountain-range. Old settlers insisted 
that it had been so named because, from the first settling of the 
country until a year or two ago, one had to look out for redskins if 
he went over there. In the gap I stood and gazed both w'ays, but 
not in search of Indians. They would never come again. Finally 
I dismounted, and while the pony grazed I climbed one of the broken, 
jagged ends of the mountain for a wider view. 

From this elevated position I could make out a little drove of 
cattle south of the mountains, but a mile or two east of the gap. 
They were grazing near the foot of the range, and among them 
could be distinguished two spotted animals that bore some resem- 
blance to the one I was looking for. So I slid and stumbled down 
the steep slope, sprang into the saddle and trotted away to inves- 
tigate. 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


9 


While riding along the foot of the mountains I frightened several 
herds of deer grazing in the coves. One herd numbered a dozen or 
more. Once, in a little patch of woods, I scared up some wild tur- 
keys. There was an abundance of game here. 

Again, for perhaps the twentieth time today, disappointment met 
me. Neither of the spotted animals was Lep. 

The sun was near to setting by the time I got back to the gap. 
Now I was in a serious quandary as to what to do. The nearest 
house was ten miles ahead. If there had been anything to eat here 
I should have camped at once, for I had already ridden many miles, 
and Dick, hardy as the little fellow was, was showing signs of wear- 
iness. It looked very much as if I should either have to go supper- 
less or ride on. If I had had my gun I should have tried for a 
deer or a turkey ; but my only weapon was a pocket-knife. 

While sitting in the saddle, debating the matter, I heard a squeak- 
ing close by; and presently Vic came out of the tall grass, drag- 
ging a mule-eared rabbit that she had pounced upon and killed as 
he sat in his nest. The little dog vras hungry, too, and looked up 
at me as if to say: “Here’s something for our supper.” 

Quickly I dismounted and examined the game. It was a young 
animal, only about two-thirds grown, and plainly both fat and 
tender. Now I thrust my hand first into one pocket and then the 
other. I did not smoke — I have always detested tobacco — but I had 
been burning brush on our cleared ground recently, and perhaps I 
still had a match. 

All that my most careful search could discover was a broken piece 
of a match. But it was the right end. After examining it closely, 
I decided that there was fire in it. 

“Dick and Vic, that settles it,” I exclaimed enthusiastically. “We’re 
going to camp somewhere close by to-night. Vic, we’ll have broiled 
rabbit for supper, but no bread or salt.” 

Vic wagged her tail, stuck up her expressive ears and looked up 
at me as much as to say that if she had plenty of broiled rabbit she 
could get along without anything else. 

Tying the game behind my saddle, I led Dick through the live-oak 
grove where we had camped the fall before, and up into a cove where 
some timber grew. Here I gathered up an armful of dry wood and 
brush, tied them with the end of Dick’s lariat, and hung the bundle 
to the saddle-horn. Then, after collecting another and bigger arm- 
ful, I started for the open prairie, leading the pony. 

There was plenty of wood in the cove, and ordinarily it would 
have been the best camping-place. But, for different reasons, I did 
not care to camp here to-night. One reason: there was no water 
here, and I had no vessel to carry any in. But a far stronger reason 
was that the mountain-top was covered with dense, impenetrable 
thickets of scrub-oak, in whose thorny fastnesses, I had been in- 
formed, numerous wild animals of prey, such as wolves and wild- 
cats and mountain-lions, and a few bears, had their hiding-places. 
The wolves and wildcats I did not particularly fear, but the bears 
and mountain-lions I much preferred to have no dealings with, es- 
pecially while unarmed. 

Before leaving the cove I noticed Vic nosing excitedly in the grass 
among some bushes, and on making an investigation found that she 
had discovered a wild turkey’s nest, with six speckled, freckled eggs 
in it. These would make a valuable addition to our meager bill of 
fare, and I transferred them from the nest to my pockets. 

A few hundred yards south of the mountains was a scattering 
line of small willows, and there I found a little stream. Throwing 
down my wood on its bank I removed Dick’s saddle and bridle, and 


10 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


after tying the end of his lariat to a bush left him to help himself 
to water and grass. 

By this time darkness was settling down, and the loneliness of 
my situation was already upon me. I now began my preparations 
for spending the night here. 

Selecting a suitable place, I carefully pulled all the grass for a 
yard or two around. This was to keep my camp-fire from spreading. 
But the grass itself I put to one side, to be used for a bed later. 
Then I arranged my kindling and some of my wood, and soon a 
cheerful, crackling fire was blazing up. Now I felt less lonely. 

First I skinned the mule-ear. After washing it in the stream I 
cut it into pieces, impaled each of the hams on a willow stick, and 
held them over the fire to broil. All the while, to keep from getting 
lonely, I carried on a steady if one-sided conversation with Vic. ^ 

“Smells delicious, don’t it, little dog? Won’t take long to broil it 
now. Wish we had a sprinkle of salt to rub on it. But, salted or not, 
there won’t be a smell of it left when we get through.” 

Vic was sitting near me, with her ears pricked up alertly, while 
she eyed the broiling game with hungry solicitude. When talking 
to her I could hear her tail rustling the grass as she wagged it so- 
ciably, responsively. 

After the hams had been appetizingly browned, 1 laid them on the 
grass; and having thrust other parts of the rabbit through with the 
sticks, I stuck the sticks well into the ground, over the fire, and left 
them to take care of themselves. Now I gave Vic one of the hams 
and myself went to work on the other. We were both hungry, and 
the hams were not half enough. The other pieces were broiled by 
this time, and I divided them between us. Soon the mule-ear’s bones 
had been picked clean. 

I had intended to save the turkey-eggs till morning; but my hun- 
ger was unsatisfied, and the temptation to eat them to-night was 
very strong. 

“Vic,” I remarked, “we’ll have a square meal now, and try to 
reach the settlements in time for breakfast.” 

The two eggs that I first buried in the embers to roast exploded 
loudly, one after the other, scattering ashes and fragments of them- 
selves for yards around. With the others I was more careful, mak- 
ing holes in the shells, and standing them in the embers open ends 
up. They were soon roasted to perfection. Vic ate one and I the 
other three. There was enough but not a bite too much. 

Supper finished I leaned back with a sigh of satisfaction. Night 
had long since closed down upon the scene. The steep, wild moun- 
tain, veiled in gloom, seemed to overhang me. Somewhere over to 
the west a wolf kept yelping; and on the mountain-top close by two 
wildcats were engaged in a bitter quarrel, snarling and screaming 
at each other defiantly. Sometimes Vic, excited by their clamor, ran 
off into the darkness to bark at them. 

Once more, a few weeks later, I should look upon this scene as it 
was now. After that twenty years would pass ere I should return. 
And then I should stand upon the broken end of the mountain and 
look down into the' gap — upon something very different. The moun- 
tains themselves would be unchanged, but all the surrounding coun- 
try would be netted over with barbed-wire fences, dividing it into 
farms and pastures, and dotted over with farm-houses. And in the 
gap, the wild, rugged break in the mountain-range which I could 
now see dimly, would stand a busy little town — in the very gap, and 
spreading out on each side of it like a fan. There would be stores 
and shops and a cotton-gin, and pretty, neatly painted cottages, and 
a schoolhouse and churches. What a change — what a wonderful 
change ! 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


11 


And as should stand and gaze down upon the changed scene, 
though my judgment would tell me that this was better, something 
within me would keep saying, as I recalled this night: “They have 
spoiled it all — they have spoiled it all!” 

And even now, while I am writing this story, far from the scene 
of that night’s lonely camp, there comes over me a feeling of deep 
regret, amounting almost to sadness, for the old wild days — the days 
that will not return. 

But to-night, as I sat in the ring of light encircling my camp-fire, 

I was not thinking about the distant future. My thoughts were 
busy, rather, with the task ahead of me — the task of overtaking 
and bringing back my runaway ox. Lep had a decided advantage; 
for while he could keep traveling the greater part of the time, 1 
was under the necessity of searching the country on both sides of 
the road, lest I should pass him. This advantage, and the fact that 
he already had three or four or even five days the start of me, made 
my undertaking a peculiarly difficult one. 

But I was tired after a long day in the saddle, and soon began 
to think of sleeping. All that I had to sleep on was the grass — the 
grass I had already pulled and some more; but I arranged it care- 
fully, and soon had a fairly comfortable bed. At the head of the 
bed I placed my saddle for a pillow, with some grass on it to miti- 
gate its hardness. My saddle-blanket I unfolded and placed near 
me, for use only in case the night grew cool enough for cover. As 
yet, however, there was no indication of that. 

Then, after moving the pony to fresh grass, beyond the stream, 
and lying down for a drink, I came back and went to bed — my cool, 
fragrant, grassy bed. Vic lay down in reach of my head, where 
she could run her sharp little nose about in my hair. 

As I lay there, with the blue sky and the innumerable host of stars 
above me, and the nearest human habitation ten miles away, I felt 
a sense of loneliness, and at the same time a peculiar sense of satis- 
faction over my wild surroundings. The cries of prowling wild 
animals of prey on the mountains were mingled with the voices of 
night-birds and the shrill singing of harmless insects in the grass 
around me, and — and then I was fast asleep. 

Once or twice, I know not how long afterwards, I remembered 
being half awake and sitting up and looking about me drowsily, 
to recall where I was. But I saw only the dim prairie, and the 
dark mountain overhanging me, with Vic lying at my head and the 
pony cropping the grass busily but a few yards away. Then I 
dropped down and was asleep again. 

It must have been a good while after midnight when I was 
awakened once more, this time very differently. The pony was 
snorting in alarm, and Vic, backed up against the saddle, was growl- 
ing fiercely, while every hair seemed to be standing on end in angry 
defiance. I leaped to my feet. 

Following her gaze, I detected the outline of some large-sized ani- 
mal, which I quickly recognized as a mountain lion! The beast had 
its gaze fixed upon both me and the dog, and kept growling omin- 
ously in reply. . 

My first impulse was to make a dash for Dick, spring upon him 
and take to flight. But before I could do so I happened to notice 
that some small sticks of my nearly dead camp-fire were still blaz- 
ing slightly, though not enough to give any light. 

Following another impulse, I snatched up a stick and thrust it into 
the high, thick grass close by. The grass was mostly green, but 
there was plenty of dry grass iir it— of last year’s growth— to burn 
readily. 


12 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


The blaze leaped upward out of the grass with a frying, crackling 
sound, and quickly began to light up the surrounding prairie. As 
the flames rose skyward, and the circle of light widened, the lion 
was soon in plain view. 

But only for a few moments. The unexpected glare was too much 
for him. With one disappointed snarl the brute turned tail and fled 
toward the mountain, quickly vanishing into the outlying darkness. 

The Are, though burning slowly in the green grass and motion- 
less air, soon spread till it was lighting up the prairie for hundreds 
of yards around. Presently it occurred to me that it had served its 
purpose, and that I ought not allow it to sweep the whole country. 

Breaking off a willow bush, I fell to thrashing the flames with 
that. But it proved too light, and I caught up my saddle-blanket, 
plunged it into the stream, and went to work vigorously. The blan- 
ket was far more effective, but so thick was the grass that not till 
after an hour of the hardest, hottest fighting I ever did was the 
fire completely subdued. And then a black, smoking area lay like 
a big ink-spot in the green prairie. 

The sweat was now dripping from my face, and I washed and 
splashed in the water till I had cooled myself. Then I carried my 
saddle across the stream, to the unburnt prairie, and sat down by 
it. The excitement of fighting the fire and the fright from the 
mountain-lion had banished all thoughts of sleep. 

For perhaps an hour I leaned against the saddle and gazed off 
into the semi-darkness. Vic did the same, and kept up a pretty 
regular barking at what she heard. I half expected the mountain- 
lion to return. But now I was closer to the pony, and Vic would 
not fail to give me timely warning. 

Finally, becoming weary, I lay down with my head on the saddle, 
and before I knew it was asleep again. 

Vic’s barking awoke me. I sprang up suddenly, looking around 
in fright for the lion. But no lion was to be seen. A waning moon 
had risen during my last sleep, and was now bathing prairie 
and mountain in a dim, soft light. I stood gazing about me, feeling 
like one in a dream. 

Now I became aware that there was no indication of danger in 
Vic’s barking. All she heard was the baying of some hounds. 

The baying drew rapidly nearer. Soon two deer, a doe and her 
half-grown fawn, came into view through the hazy moonlight. Both, 
it was easy to see, had run far and were failing in strength. There 
were other mountains a few miles to the southeast and they had 
probably run all the way from there. 

The fugitives passed very near. To me there was something pa- 
thetic in theu' terror-filled eyes. Vic was eager to join in the chase, 
but I held her back. 

Scarcely had the hard-pressed fugitives passed when the lead- 
ing hoUnd came by, soon followed by nearly a dozen others. So 
eager were they that they scarcely noticed me, even when I tried 
to scold them back. 

Now for the first time I discovered a little drove of cattle lying 
between me and the mountain — thirty or forty head. As the hounds 
approached, the drove were all quickly upon their feet. 

At first I thought the hounds' had left the deer and were attack- 
ing the cattle; but a little later I discovered what was the matter. 
The doe and her fawn, being too nearly exhausted to climb the 
steep mountain, had taken refuge among the cattle. When the 
hounds came up the cattle confronted them with a threatening 
array of horns. The dogs ran round, but everywhere they encoun- 
tered that horned ring. 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


13 


In vain the hounds tried to reach their intended victims. Not only 
could they not break through, but' the moment a dog came too close 
a cow or steer would rush out of the circle and chase him furiously 
for a hundred yards. 

Public sentiment was against hunting deer at this time of the 
year; and as the owner of the pack did not come I inferred that 
the hounds had gone hunting of their own accord. 

Finding they could not penetrate that defensive ring, the dogs 
stationed themselves around the cattle, at a safe distance, and sat 
down to wait. Every now and then one of them would bay in that 
dismal, doleful way that only a flop-eared hound can bay. While 
I _ was still watching the interesting situation, moonlight began to 
give place to daylight. 

Now I walked out toward the cattle and tried to call off the dogs. 
The one I approached only barked at me, which so provoked me that 
I moved around him to the foot of the mountain, where stones were 
plentiful, and began to let fly at him. Once started, I hurled stone 
after stone till the whole pack abandoned the chase and fled back 
the way they had come. 

Soon afterward the cattle moved away, and the doe and her young 
one, having- re.sted, broke out of the group and bounded away up 
the mountain-side. Soon they disappeared among the scrubby 
timber that covered those upper slopes. 

While walking back to my camp, I was wondering how the deer 
had learned to avail themselves of the cattle’s protection. Was this 
the first time the doe or any of her kind had made use of that 
expedient? Or had the deer learned long ago that the hostility of the 
horned animals toward all beasts of prey was something that could 
safely be depended upon? Perhaps they had learned that when' 
the first cattle came into the country. Possibly it was something 
they had known for ages, having found it out when the buffaloes 
were here, and when the wolves, the common enemies of both, had 
made it necessary for the defenseless deer to seek the companion- 
ship of their horned friends. But, however and whenever learned, 
it was certainly an ingenious and useful expedient. 

By the time daylight had fully come I had saddled Dick and^was 
riding on in quest of my lost ox. With the coming of morning my 
courage and determination, both of which had weakened a little 
during the hours of darkness, returned with full force. That ox 
must be brought back if I had to follow him to the “jumping-off 
place.” And I should have need of all my determination; for, as 
the sequel proved, a long, difficult and even dangerous chase was 
ahead of me. 


CHAPTER III. 


WITH THE HERMIT SHEPHERD. 

1 WAS still in the prairie country and, as on the day. before, kept 
turning aside to investigate every bell I heard and every bunch of 
cattle I caught sight oT There were not so many cattle here as 
north of the mountains, and but little time was lost. I pushed 
steadily southward, and the sun was not very high when I arrived 
at the first house. Here a pack of hounds, the same that had pur 
sued the doe and her fawn, ran out and surrounded the pony, barked 
and bayed at me with a deafening clamor. 

Evidently the family were not early risers; for they were just 
sitting down to breakfast, at the shady end of their cabin, when, 
pushing my way through the noisy pack, I rode up to the yard 
fence and inquired for a spotted ox with very long horns and a big 
bell. 

“Why, yes; that animal was here just yisterday — no, the day 
before,” the man informed me. “He stopped here some time durin^ 
the night, I guess it was. Anyhow, I found ’im layin’ out there by 
the cow-lot gate, lickin’ hisself, when I went out to milk next morn- 
in’. That was the first I’d seen of ’im, and the last. But he must 
be some’r’s around here. Where do you live?” 

“Up beyond the mountains, in the Little Pecan Creek country. 
Nearly forty miles from here, it must be.” 

“And where did you stay last night?” 

“Back yonder close to the gap. I camped out, and slept on the 
grass.” 

“Then get down — get down and have some breakfast with us,” 
the man was quick to urge, with the usual frontier hospitality. 

I had expected this invitation, and was very glad to receive it. 

“I haven’t got a red cent with me, but — ” I had begun to explain. 
The man interrupted with a wave of his hand. “We ain’t a-run- 
nin’ no tavern. If you can put up with what little you’ll git, you’re 
welcome to it.” 

So I turned my pony loose to graze, with his lariat trailing, and 
went in. And a very good breakfast they gave me. While eating, 
I relating how I had left home without anything, even a hat, and 
had accumulated all my present possessions on the way. The fam- 
ily were much interested, and the man said: 

“If you’re goin’ on, I can lend you a good slicker. You might 
run into a rain some’r’s along.” 

I thanked him and accepted his offer, though not till after ex- 
plaining that it might be a good while before I could return the coat. 

While we were eating Vic sat near the table, watching us hun- 
grily. Fearing her wants might be overlooked I told how she had 
given me warning when the mountain-lion came prowling around my 
camp. I also explained how I had scared the lion away by firing 
the grass, and what a hard fight I had to put out the fire afterwards. 
“Lucky you had the little fyst along,” the man remarked. “If you 
hadn’t, you might have waked up to find that lion on top of you. 
Not a bit too good to do that very thing if they get a fair chanst, 
them varmints ain’t. I’ve killed five of the creatures out here. The 
hounds treed ’em and I shot ’em.” 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


15 


I also mentioned how Vic had provided our supper by catching 
the mule-ear and finding the wild turkey’s nest. 

“Why, she’s a nice little thing,” the woman said. “Wisht we had 
one like her instid of all them hounds.” She called Vic to her, .and 
after patting her on the head fed the little dog more than she could 
eat. 

Then, in spite of my protests, the woman wrapped up something 
for my dinner and forced it upon me. I thanked her heartily, and 
after rolling the package in my borrowed slicker, and tying them 
behind my saddle, I mounted and rode on. 

Houses were few and far between. On my left rose a mountain- 
range; on my right, but several miles distant, spread out an ex- 
tensive forest. I kept working on both sides of the road as I ad- 
vanced. At the first house I failed to learn anything; but inquiry 
at the second house brought out the information that Lep had been 
seen to pass there two days before, following the road. 

“I could tell he was runnin’ away from home, and I had half a 
mind to stop ’im,” the settler remarked. “Sorry now I didn’t.” 

“So am I,” I replied, and hurried on. 

Believing that the ox was now traveling steadily, I, too, took the 
road and pushed on after him, stopping only to visit the nearest 
bunches of cattle, and to make inquiries at every house. 

Well on in the afternoon I forded the Leon River, and not far 
beyond it came to a small town. There were only two or three stores, 
a blacksmith shop and a cotton-gin. I made my usual inquiries, but 
Lep had not been seen. However, there was little doubt that he had 
passed. Coming from where I had last got word of him, he would 
have gone through here after dark. 

Realizing now that the old fellow was likely to lead me a long 
and lively chase, I entered the postoffice, and approaching the post- 
master with some diffidence, said: 

“I’m sixty or seventy miles from home, on the trail of a runaway 
ox, and without a cent in my pocket. I want a postal card to write 
to my father. If you’ll lend me one. I’ll mail you another as soon 
as I—” 

He stopped me with a gesture, then reached up, p-ot a card, and 
laid it on the counter. “It’s too little to bother about,” he remark- 
ed, carelessly. The average Texan scorns to waste time with any- 
thing less than a nickel. 

With a borrowed pen, I leaned on the show-case and wrote. After 
mentioning some of my experiences — the less exciting ones — I con- 
cluded by saying: 

“I am hot on his trail, and expect to stay with him till I track 
him down, if it takes till cotton-picking time.” 

Then I slipped the card into the letter-box and was soon on the 
road again. 

As Dick trotted along, I entertained myself by imagining how that 
card would be received at home. 

“I wish Travis would come back and let the old steer go,” mother 
would say. “I don’t ‘like to have him wandering all over the coun- 
try by himself.” 

Then father would speak up in his brisk, hearty way: 

“No, no, let him alone — let him alone! We need that ox and we 
need him mighty bad. And on top of that, it’ll be the making of 
the boy. A boy that don’t know how to hang on and hang on and 
hang on, no matter what he undertakes, or how hard it turns out, 
will never be worth the powder and lead it would take to blow his 
head off.” 

My road was now leading me toward the southwest. At a house 
a few miles beyond town Lep had been seen again. After that I 


16 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


entered a rough, broken country, half prairie and half brush, and 
the settlements ceased altogether. The road was old, but dim and 
little traveled. In places I could make out tracks which I believed 
to be Lep’s. On I pushed, mile after mile, mile after mile. 

At length the sun sank low, and Vic, trotting along by the pony, 
kept looking up as if to ask if it wasn’t high time to find a camp- 
ing-place. Recalling my experience with the mountain-lion I was 
very reluctant to spend another night out of doors, especially in this 
wild region. 

While still debating what to do I was much relieved to hear dogs 
barking and sheep bleating, somewhere off to my right, and a good 
distance away. Quickly the pony was heading in that direction. 

Nearly a mile from the road I came upon a sheep-ranch. It was 
by no means a pretentious affair, consisting of little besides a big 
rail-pen for the sheep and a cabin for the shepherd. 

The man, a wild-looking fellow, with a great, bushy brown beard, 
was just penning his numerous flock for the night. I waited till 
they were all in and the gate shut, then rode up and made my in- 
quiry, well punctuated now with bleats. The shepherd had not seen 
Lep. After waiting in vain for an invitation to get down, I ven- 
tured to ask: 

“What would be the chance to stay all night?” 

“Why, certainly you can stay — certainly — certainly — certainly!” 

The words were spoken with an earnestness that was little short 
of vehemence. Though surprised, I was well pleased at receiving 
so warm a welcome. My attempt to explain that I had no money 
was promptly cut short with : 

“Feel just as free here as if you had a gold-mine in your pocket.” 

While I was unsaddling Dick the shepherd remarked, pointing: 

“You’d better take him over yonder a few hundred yards. The 
sheep haven’t been over there for some time. He’ll think himself 
too good to feed after them, I guess.” 

While being led away Dick kept putting down his head for a 
mouthful of grass, but only sniffed at it contemptuously. Having 
found a place where he was willing to graze I tied him to a sumac 
bush and left him for the night. 

Returning to the cabin I saw the shepherd going out with a milk- 
bucket on his arm and followed him. No cows were in sight, but 
several goats were browsing around outside, and some noisy kids 
occupied a little pen at the end of the sheep-pen. 

“What! Do you milk goats?” I inquired, half incredulously. I 
had read of such a thing but had never yet seen it. 

“Why yes. Why not? They give good milk. They associate with 
my sheep, too, and cows wouldn’t, I guess.” 

I watched the goat-milking process curiously. At last I took a 
cup and tried to milk one myself, using my thumb and fore finger, 
as the shepherd did. The attempt was fairly successful, but I did 
not try another one. The shepherd milked the rest, while I stood 
watching a long-bearded, patriarchal-appearing Billy-goat as he 
stalked about the pen. 

The milking finished we returned to the cabin, the shepherd car- 
rying his milk and I my saddle. By this time darkness had come 
on. The man, whose name, I had learned, was Groves, kindled a 
little fire in a big fireplace and set about preparing supper. 

The interior of the cabin, as revealed by the flickering firelight, 
was very rudely furnished — almost unfurnished. There were no 
chairs, and no floor but the ground. The only bed was half a wagon- 
load of prairie grass in a corner, with a buffalo-robe and some 
blankets on it. In front of the fire a large-sized dry-goods box, 
turned bottom up, served for a table at meal-time and for a seat 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


17 


at other times. In one corner lay a saddle, sprawling on its back; 
in another stood a gun, an old, retired army musket; and high 
against the wall hung a six-shooter, neck-deep in its leather scab- 
bard. These, with a few cooking vessels, dropped where last used 
around the fireplace, and some sheepskins tacked against the wall 
to dry, made up the cabin’s contents. No window cut the logs, the 
gaping spaces between them being amply sufficient to let in air and 
light when the door was shut. 

Groves cooked some corn-cakes in a frying pan, and fried some 
slices of bacon — all drowned in grease. These, with black sorghum 
molasses from a jug and some goat’s milk made up our supper. The 
milk was warm and had, to me, a peculiar taste, the bacon was fat 
and the bread soggy; but I was far too hungry to care for such 
trifles. We sat on the ground, and ate out of tin plates and drank 
out of tin cups, which the shepherd had fished out from under the 
box. 

The meal ended for us. Groves fed his two dogs and Vic, then 
shut the door and came back and washed his tin dishes. Afterwards 
he divided his grass-pile, putting half of it and the buffalo-robe in 
another place for me to sleep on. Now he filled and fired his pipe, 
and we sat on the big box and talked, by the firelight. And a very 
interesting talker I found him. 

“How old would you suppose I am?” he asked, in the course of 
the conversation. 

I looked at his big, bushy beard and guessed forty. 

“You’re thirteen years off. I’m not quite twenty-seven.” He 
laughed and seemed rather pleased than otherwise. 

Greatly surprised, I inquired if he had no razor. 

“Yes, but I’m letting it rest now. I’m letting my beard grow for 
a — well, I’m letting it grow. People that knew me without it wouldn’t 
begin to know me with it; and people that know me with it wouldn’t 
begin to know me without it.” 

Something in the way this was said made me infer that he was 
wearing it as a disguise. And the suspicion flashed into my mind 
that possibly the fellow was a fugitive from justice. 

After inquiring where I lived, and how long I had lived there, 
he said: 

“I’m a Virginian. Two thousand miles from home I am now, and 
I get mighty, mighty homesick and lonesome sometimes. Eight 
>ears have gone by since I saw my folks; and it’s a good while since 
I even heard from ’em.” 

“Have you lived on a sheep-ranch all that^time?” 

“All but a few months of it,” he answered. “I hired out to a 
sheep-raiser only a week or two after I struck west Texas, and I’ve 
been tied to sheep ever since. Three years I herded for another man.. 
After that I bought me a little flock, a mere handful and started 
out on my own hook. That was in — in another part of the country. 
I pegged down right here just fourteen months ag''. Let me tell 
you, I had some stirring times when I first struck the range. Twice 
the Comanches dashed in among the sheep, and 1 d some and 
stampeded the others — scattered ’em like a whirlwind s'*atters chaff.” 

“It’s a wonder they didn’t carry off your scalp,” I remarked. 

“Yes, it is — a great wonder. But once I took to the brush and 
dodged ’em, and once I jumped onto my pony and outran the red 
rascals. Do you ever drink — ever touch whiskey?” he suddenly de- 
manded. , . , 

“No, never,” I replied, wondering greatly what this abrupt ques- 
tion had to do with sheep-herding and Indians. 

“Then, whatever you do, stick to that — stick to that!” he fairly 


18 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


hissed, as he leaned toward me. “Then you’ll never have to leave 
home and go off into a wild, half-civilized country, among desperadoes 
and redskins.” 

He changed the subject at once, leaving me with the impression, 
however, that whatever trouble had sent him out here drink had been 
at the bottom of it. 

We talked on; or, rather. Groves talked, while I listened or asked 
questions. He told me much about his former home, and of the 
modes of living in that far-away, and, to me, largely unknown country. 

Suddenly our three dogs outside burst into a loud, excited barking. 

“Sh!” the shepherd whispered, warningly, as he sprang to his feet. 
For a few moments he stood motionless, listening intently. Once, 
while he was in this attitude, his eyes met mine, and even in the dim 
firelight I could detect a wild, half-terrified look in them — the look 
of a hunted animal! 

Suddenly he sprang back to the corner and snatched up his gun, 
the old army musket. 

“Don’t you hear ’em — can’t you hear ’em?” he whispered excitedly, 
coming close to me. That wild, strange look was still in his eyes. 

“Who is it?” I demanded, much mystified and not a little alarmed 
at his strange conduct. 

“The cattle-men! They’re coming to kill me! They’re right close 
here!” 

Snatching up a board, his makeshift for a shovel, he began to 
shovel ashes frantically upon the little fire. Nor did he stop till the 
last spark had been blotted out. 

Now I understood. Often I had heard of those fierce, murderous 
quarrels that break out between sheep-men and cattle-men. But 
never before had I come in personal touch with one. The shepherd’s 
manner meant but too plainly that he was in terror for his life. 

After moving slowly, stealthily around the wall, listening and 
peering out, he returned to where I was standing, in the center of 
the room, and whispered excitedly: 

“The cattle-men have been trying to kill me and they’re coming 
tonight to try harder. They’re somewhere right close by now. They 
want to get near enough to stick their guns between the logs. When 
they once do that, they’ll blow me to atoms, and you with me!” 

Now I too was frightened, and heartily wished I had camped out 
in the brush somewhere — anywhere. Mountain-lions, frightful things 
though they were, were far less to be dreaded than "these cattle- 
raising assassins. 

Presently Groves moved over to the wall, then came back and 
thrust something cold into my hands. It was his six-shooter. 

“Are you brave?” he whispered, almost hissed, into my ear. 

“Not to hurt,” I answered. 

“Can you fight?” 

“I’d rather not.” 

“Can you die?” 

“I’d— I’d a good deal rather not,” I protested. At this strange 
question, icy chills of horror began to chase one another up and down 
my back. 

Soon the dogs burst out again, louder than before. Listening anx- 
iously, my ear detected something that I took to be light, cautious 
footsteps not far away. 

“Don’t you hear ’em now?” whispered the shepherd. “Don’t you 
hear em slipping- up? They’re coming closer and closer! And they’ll 
get me— oh, I just know they’ll get me to-night! But I’m glad you’re 
with me. It won’t be so hard to die when you’ve got company We’ll 
die together!” 


CHAPTER IV. 


ON GUARD FOR ASSASSINS. 

Y es, we’ll die together,” Groves kept repeating, as if the state- 
ment afforded him no little consolation. 

“Not if I can help it,” I said to myself. And at once I be- 
gan to wonder how I could escape. 

“Did they ever try to kill you before?” I wanted to know, after 
recovering from my first fright. 

“Time and again — time and again,” he assured me. “But I was 
always on my guard. I was too sharp for ’em. But they’ll get me 
yet — oh, I just know they’ll get me! But I’ll get some of them 
first. Now see if I don’t.” 

“Maybe you’re worse scared than there’s need for,” I suggested. 
“Why should the cattle-men want to kill you?” 

“To get me out of the way, of course. Then they’ll kill the sheep, 
to get them out of the way. And they’ll be here to-night — yes, sir, 
they’ll be here to-night! Now watch what I tell you. I’ve had my 
warning that they’re going to kill me if they can — if they can! But 
I’m watching out for ’em, and I’ll get lots of them if they don’t look 
sharp. Lucky you stopped here to-night. You can help me guard 
the house. I can’t guard both sides at once, but with you to watch 
one side, maybe we can keep ’em off. Anyhow, we’ll try.” 

I did not answer. The arrangement was little to my taste. It 
was no quarrel of mine, and I should have been more than glad to 
keep clear of it. It would be cowardly, though, to deseit the shep- 
herd in his hour of peril. And if the cattle-men were already around 
the house, there might be less danger in staying than going. So, 
six-shooter in hand, I moved over to the wall and began to peer 
out between the logs in quest of assassins. 

• The night was partly cloudy, but there was light enough to reveal 
objects dimly. For several minutes I kept a cautious watch, but 
failed to discover anything dangerous. Groves, who was watching' 
near the door, soon tiptoed over to my side to caution me not to 
shut an eye till the moon rose. All our conversation was carried on- 
in whispers. 

“If you let the scoundrels crawl up close enough, they’ll blow us 
both to pieces,” he declared. 

“Why should they kill me?” I inquired, with a shud'^er. 

“Because they won’t know us apart in the dark. Kill one, kill' 
both. You can depend on that. 'We’ll die together.” 

This was terrible. While Groves moved on around the wall, my 
excited brain kept revolving various plans to escape; but not one 
seemed safer than staying here and defending the cabin. So I re- 
solved to make the best of a bad situation. 

Long I watched there, with ears strained and my eyes searching 
the darkness outside. Slowly, gradually my fears subsided. Per- 
haps the cattle-men might not come tonight, after all. 

“Have they ever actually tried to kill you?” I inquired, when* 
Groves, who was seldom still, got round to me again. 

“Ever tried to kill me? 'Well, I rather guess they have — a dozen 
times at least. But I’m too sharp for ’em. I always see ’em slip- 
ping up to the cabin, and then I let drive.” 


20 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


“What! Did you shoot at them?” 

“Of course I have. Fifty times, I guess.” 

“And did you hit any of them?” 

“Yes, I have — that I have! Fve let daylight through seven of 
the scoundrels; and Fll kill about seven more, I hope, before they 
fnish me. Oh, I’ll sell my life dearly. You can count on that. And 
they know it, too; every mother’s son of ’em knows it. Yes, they’re 
bound to get me at last.” 

“Do you mean to tell me that you’ve actually killed seven of the 
cattle-men?” I demanded. The thought of all those seven corpses, 
lying pale and stark, well-nigh froze my blood, 

“Yes, sirree! That’s just what I did! I laid out seven of the 
scoundrels neatly, and I hope to lay out seven or eight more before 
they finish me. But they’ll get me at last — they’ll get me at last,” 
he repeated, half sadly, as if realizing his inevitable doom. 

He moved on around the wall, and I stood staring after him. The 
full horror of the fellow’s confession had taken possession of me. 
No wonder the cattle-raisers were after this man, bent on vengeance, 
when he had killed seven of their’ number ! And no wonder Groves, 
with all that blood red on his hands, had little hope of escaping the 
cattle-men’s vengeance in the end! 

“If you see or hear anything suspicious, blaze away at it,” he said 
on coming to me again. “The more we shoot of ’em, the longer we 
have to live.” 

“Did you kill all seven right close here?” I asked, unable to drive 
that ghastly subject out of my mind. 

“Yes. Every one was knocked over in a dozen yards of this cab- 
in,” was the reply, almost exultantly uttered. There was not the 
slightest sign of remorse. “They tried to sneak up to blow my brains 
out, but I was too quick for the rascals. The first thing they knew 
they were stretched out on the ground, kicking as hard as they 
could. My! how hard some of ’em did kick! One fellow kept kick- 
ing and fiouncing about nearly five minutes after I knocked him over.” 

This was said with as little feeling as if he had been talking about 
the weather. 

“Have you never been arrested?” 

“No. The cattle-men won’t put the sheriff after me, because they 
want to kill me themselves. They will, too, and that before very 
long; but not till I’ve laid out some more of them. Maybe I’ll get to 
shoot a few more tonight — who knows? Anyhow, I hope so. We 
must both keep a sharp lookout.” 

He moved on, and I stood by the wall, peeriner out into the dark- 
ness, and listening for any sound that would give warning of the 
enemy’s approach. My thoughts, however, kept running on what I 
had just heard. Evidently Groves was a desperate, cold-blooded 
fellow, fully capable of taking care of himself. To say that I wish- 
ed myself miles from here would be far short of expressing my feel- 
ings. If I escaped this time, I promised myself never to stop any- 
where again, especially with a lone man, without knowing something 
of his history. Should the vengeance of the cattle-men fall tonight, 
I must inevitably be a victim to it. In leaving an out-of-doors camp 
to spend a night here, I had jumped out of the frying pan into 
the fire. 

An hour or two dragged by, and still nothing suspicious and been 
seen or heard. My fears had largely subsided, and I began to grow 
drowsy. After losing so much sleep the night before, and riding 
hard all day, weariness was heavy upon me. The bed Groves had 
prepared for my use was at my feet, and I sat down on the edge of 
it. The shepherd had called the dogs inside, and Vic came and 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


21 


curled herself up near me. Soon I lay down on my face, in such 
a position that I could see out between the logs. The six-shooter was 
in my hand. 

While reminding myself that I must by all means remain awake, 
I fell asleep. 

How long I slept is uncertain ; but I awoke with a start to find 
somebody shaking me. I grabbed the six-shooter and started to my 
feet, under the impression that the cattle-men had got into the ca- 
bin and seized me. But it was only the shepherd. 

“They’re coming now! They’re right close by!” he was whisper- 
ing excitedly. “Don’t you hear ’em — can’t you hear ’em?” 

I listened with all my ears, and certainly did detect footsteps 
somewhere not far away. 

“Now keep a sharp lookout on your side, and I’ll keep a sharp 
lookout on my side, and maybe we can get some of the rascals. Who 
knows but what we may kill one apiece? Wouldn’t it be fine if we 
could?” he added, with a cheerfulness that was little less than as- 
tounding. “Don’t suppose you ever killed a man, did you?” he in- 
quired. 

“No, I — I never did,” I answered, shuddering as his cold-blooded 
way of asking the question. 

“Well, watch out now, and maybe you’ll get a chance before long. 
Makes you feel a little queer when you knock over the first one; but 
by the time you’ve laid out as many as I have, you’ll get used to it. 
Keep your eyes open now!” 

He returned to the front side of the cabin. I sat listening and 
looking, ready to shoot instantly if an opportunity offered. I didn’t 
care to kill anybody, not even one of the dreadful cattle-men. A 
shot in the air would answer all my purposes. But the sound of 
footsteps — or whatever they were — came no nearer, and I had no oc- 
casion to use the six-shooter. 

Again an hour or more dragged its slow length by, and again, af- 
ter the excitement died out, I- began to grow drowsy. Feeling con- 
fident that there had been a false alarm, I finally resumed my po- 
sition on the bed. 

Before I was aware of having fallen asleep, a terrific explosion 
tore the air almost over me — an explosion that seemed loud enough 
to lift the cabin roof! 

Up I leaped, frightened half out of my senses. My ears were 
still ringing with that report. The shepherd was standing near me, 
quietly reloading his gun. 

“What’s the matter? What did you shoot at?” I cried out in the 
dark, excitedly. 

“Sh!” was his warning. Then he whispered: “He was crawling 
up, but I was too quick for him. He thought he had me that time, 
but he’ll never trouble me any more.” 

“What! Did you hit him?” 

“Yes, I laid him out. Don’t you see him kicking out there?” 

I put my eyes to an opening, and could certainly make out a body 
lying several yards away. It was barely distinguishable in the dark, 
but I could see it jumping and jerking convulsively, as if in the 
throes of death. 

A strange feeling of horror, impossible to describe, crept over me 
as I watched that prostrate form till it became motionless. Indeed, 
I could scarcely keep my eyes away from it. But the shepherd 
seemed not in the least disturbed by the deed he had committed — 
the taking of a life. 

“What made you go to sleep again?” he whispered. “If you’d 


22 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


kept awake, you might have killed that fellow, instead of me. But 
maybe you’ll get one yet. I’m going back to my own side. Hope I 
can knock over another rascal there.” 

Again there was a long silence, and again, in spite of that mo- 
tionless, lifeless body stiffening out there among the bushes, I lay 
down on iny rude bed and slept — slept the sleep of weariness. 

Once more I was awakened by an unusual noise, very different 
from the roar of the old army musket, however. So sleepy was I 
that, though partly awake, I had been listening to the sound for 
some time, as it seemed, before I could realize what it was and 
where I was. 

Now I sat up. The cabin-door stood wide open, and the moon had 
risen till everything outside was in plain view. In front of the ca- 
bin stood the shepherd, with his head thrown back, singing with 
all his might. In the still night-air his words must have been aud- 
ible a mile or two away. 

He was just finishing something as I woke up. Now he began 
on another verse. The words were very distinct: 

‘T comb my head with a curry-comb, 

I grease my boots with a bacon-rind; 

I grind my teeth on a big grindstone; 

My claws are long as a punkin-vine!” 

These words, shouted out, almost bellowed out, at the top of the 
singer’s strong voice, had a strangely grotesque sound; so much so 
that I half believed myself still asleep and dreaming. 

After pausing for a few moments, the singer started up some- 
thing else: 

“Go tell Aunt Nancy — 

Go tell Aunt Nancy — 

Go tell Aunt Nancy 

The old gray goose is -dead!” 

At the end of that verse. Groves went first to one corner of the 
cabin and then to the other, as if looking for his enemies. Then 
he planted himself in front of the door again, and again he began 
to sing: 


“I’ll eat when I’m hungry, 

I’ll drink when I’m dry; 

If a limb don’t fall on me 
I’ll live till I die!” 

These silly words, shouted out so vociferously, would have sound- 
ed ridiculous under different circumstances; but they had no such 
sound to me now. In fact, a strange, creepy feeling of horror stole 
over me as I sat there on the buffalo-robe and grass, listening to 
them. For I knew well enough what they meant: the shepherd was 
crazy — as crazy as a loon! The persecutions of his enemies, and 
perhaps remorse for all the lives he had taken, must have driven 
him insane. 


CHAPTER V. 


A SONG IN THE NIGHT. 

N OW, even more than before, I wished myself a thousand miles 
from this uncanny creature and his cabin. No telling what 
he might do. But for the fact that he was standing in front 
of the door I should doubtless have tried to slip out and steal away. 
But before I could decide upon any course of action the shepherd 
took another look around the corner of his cabin, then began to 
sing again. 

The contrast between this song and his others could scarcely have 
been greater. Those, with their silly words, were shouted out loud- 
ly, boisterously, almost with insane vehemence; but this song was 
sung with such expression and feeling as affected me strangely. 
Both the words and the air I had never heard before; nor have I 
ever heard them since. Perhaps the shepherd had composed both; 
for, in spite of some crudities of speech, he was an intelligent fel- 
low, and, I think, a born musician. 

Most of the words I have forgotten, but the beginning of the re- 
frain was: “Pm far, far from home.” It was the heart-broken 
plaint of an exile, homesick for the home to which he dared not 
return. 

I have heard some famous singers since, but never one that seem- 
ed to me to sing from the heart as this man did, and never a song 
that affected me as this song did. Perhaps my surroundings, and 
what I had learned and guessed of the hermit shepherd’s life, may 
have had something to do with it; but, as I sat and listened I could 
scarcely keep the tears out of my eyes. Such was the pathos pour- 
ing out with the exile’s words. 

Verse followed verse, and until the song was concluded I scarcely 
moved. When he had finished the shepherd sang no more, but stood 
motionless, gazing far away. Before I had been a little afraid, not 
knowing what the fellow might take it into his crazy head to do. 
But now I felt that, however insane the man might be, there was, 
for the present at least, no violence in his insanity. 

Laying the six-shooter aside I stole to the door and stood watch- 
ing him. At last, when he did not turn, I worked up courage enough 
to speak : 

“What are you doing out there, Mr. Groves?” 

He spun round instantly. “Oh, it’s you, is it?” he exclaimed, in 
relieved tones. “Pd forgot you were here. When you spoke I 
thought the cattle-men had come back. But I might have known 
better. They never show their heads after the moon rises. They 
only come when it’s dark — pitch-dark, the scoundrels! They know 
what’s ready for ’em if they come about when I can see. I was 
singing to — did you hear me singing? I was just singing to let ’em 
know Pm not afraid of ’em. That was what the first songs were for. 
When they hear me singing like that they know I’m not afraid, and 
it makes the scoundrels shiver. Yes, sirree, you’d better believe it 
makes ’em shiver! And they go sneaking back to their holes.” 

“Yes, they’ve all gone back now,” I said, thinking it better to 
humor him. “Why don’t you come in and sleep awhile? You’ve 


24 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


been up all night. It’s my turn to stand guard now. Come in and 
lie down, and I’ll take your place.” 

“Think you can keep ’em off if they all come together?” he in- 
quired, somewhat doubtfully. 

“But they won’t come now that the moon’s up,” I reminded him. 

“Why, yes, of course. I’d forgot about the moon.” He turned 
and gazed at it. “Sure enough, there it is. Well, maybe I’d better 
sleep awhile.” 

He went inside and stretched himself on his bed. I was hoping 
he had gone to sleep, when he rose to his elbow and said: 

“Did you hear that last song I sung?” 

“Yes. Did you sing that to the cattle-men, too?” 

“No,” he answered, scornfully. “What would they know about 
such a song as that? I never cast pearls before swine. I was sing- 
ing that to the folks at home. It has been a year or two since I 
heard from ’em. I used to write when I first came out here, and 
they wrote to me. But I got afraid — afraid somebody else might 
read the letters; and so I don’t write any more. But sometimes in 
the night, when I’m too restless to sleep, I go out and sing ’em that 
song — the song you heard me sing. But I’m afraid they don’t hear 
it. Two thousand miles is a long, long way. Do you think they 
could hear it as far as that?” he asked, appealingly. 

“Well, sound carries a good distance on a still night like this.” 

“That’s so,” he said. “But it would carry farther if the wind 
came from the west. Maybe it will be blowing from the west by 
tomorrow night, and then I’ll sing it to ’em again. If they’re asleep 
and can’t hear it maybe they’ll dream they hear it. Almost every 
night I see them in my dreams and talk to ’em.” 

He lay down again, but soon came to the door. 

“You haven’t found that spotted ox of yours have you? That’s 
because you’ve not looked in the right place. I happer'ed to glance 
through a crack just now, and saw him first thing. Yonder he is!” 
He was pointing straight at the moon. 

I turned and gazed in the same direction, “My eyes are not as 
good as yours,” I finally answered. 

“Well, now, that’s strange. I can see him as plainly as I see you. 
His horns sprouted feathers and turned to wings, and he flew up 
to the moon. And the man in the moon has yoked him up and gone 
plowing with him. Strange you can’t see that.” 

“Oh well, no matter,” I answered, carelessly. “It serves the old 
rascal right for running away. Let the man in the moon plow with 
him as much as he pleases. You go back and get some sleep.” 

The shepherd returned to his bed, and this time he remained there. 
I sat down on a door-sill and waited. At last his regular breathing 
told me he was asleep. That was what I was waiting for. 

My saddle was lying by the house, and I took it up, as noiselessly 
as possible, and started. Vic was at my heels. 

As I passed round the cabin, something impelled me to turn aside 
and take a look at that lifeless form. The moon had crept round 
till part of the corpse was now in the light. I gave a frightened 
start and a half-gasp at the sight of a long, grayish beard. The 
slain cattle-raiser must have been an old man. But the next mo- 
nient I breathed freely again. I had seen the face above the beard. 
It was the face of a goat — the Billy-goat that had been stalking 
about near the milking-pen. Poor Billy was stone-dead! His in- 
sane master had given him a fatal bullet. 

While hurrying on in search of my pony I was almost laughing, 
so great was my relief at learning that no human life had gone out 
there that night. “That loony sheep-man has got blood enough on 
his hands,” I reflected. 


25 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


The pony found and saddled, I lost no time in mountin,^ and 
riding: away. This had been a horrible night to me — the most 
horrible of my life — and very glad was I to escape from the sheep- 
ranch and its crazy hermit shepherd. 

By the time I had regained the road day was tinging the east- 
ern sky. More than once during the night I had half decided that 
if I ever got safely away I would take the back track and go straight 
home. But now, the danger escaped, my courage had revived, and 
without hesitation I started on after the runaway. 

My plan was to keep riding till I came to a house; and then, after 
informing his neighbors that the shepherd had become a lunatic, I 
would determine what to do next by the information received there. 

Rapidly I rode, and the sun was just peeping over the horizon 
when I looked down into a valley and discovered a farm and a neat- 
appearing farmhouse. A boy and a girl, both bareheaded, were in 
the stake-and-ridered cow-pen, milking. I rode up to the pen. 

The boy, who was tall, light-haired and fair-faced, and not much 
older than myself, came over to the fence. 

Scarcely had I mentioned a spotted ox with unusuaily long horns, 
when the young fellow broke in: 

“Yes, that steer is here now. That is, he’s close around some- 
where. We found him lying at the gate day-before-yesterday morn- 
ing when we came out to milk. He went off with our cattle, and was 
here again yesterday morning. My sister and I noticed him on ac- 
count of his horns. And we noticed him still more clcssly because 
we knew he didn’t belong around here. He has taken up with our 
cattle. You couldn’t run him off. But they failed to come home 
last night — our dry cattle, I mean. But your ox went off with them, 
and he’s still with them. They’re all somewhere close around. Have 
you followed him far?” he inquired, with friendly interest. 

“Seventy-five or eighty miles. This is my third day out from 
home.” 

“Your third day! You are having a chase of it. Where did you 
sleep last night?” 

“I didn’t sleep, to speak of. I spent the night a few miles back 
on a sheep-ranch, with a wild, raving lunatic. The- night before I 
camped with a mountain-lion, and managed to get along fairly well. 
But sleep was out of the question last night.” 

“So you stayed with Sam Groves, did you? I know the fellow, 
but I’d rather not spend a night with him, if you please. Guess 
you had a time of it.” 

“I never spent such a night before, and hope I may never again,” 
I replied with some feeling, memory of my recei t exper’ences being 
still vivid. 

“What did he do, anyhow?” the young fellow inquired, eagerly. 
And his sister left off her milking and came over to the fence to 
listen. 

I related some of the night’s happenings, and concluded by saying: 

“The fellow is crazy — as crazy as a loon. Remorse for; all these 
lives he has taken has driven him insane. The blood of seven human 
beings on one conscience is too much for anybody to stand. ’ 

The boy smiled as he answered: 

“Sam Groves is about half-crazy, as you say. But it wasn't re- 
morse that upset him. If he ever hurt anybody in his life it was 
before he came here.” 

“Then what made him tell me he did?” I demanded, in amazement. 

“Oh, that’s just one of his insane delusions,” spoke up the gi 1 
quickly. 

“That’s right,” said her brother. “He hasn’t killed anybody yet; 


26 


A C K 0 O K E D TRAIL 


but he may if he keeps on shooting around at night, like he’s been 
doing for some time. He’s wounded a yearling steer and a horse 
for the people in this settlement, that we know of; and no telling how 
many others that nobody knows of yet. People that know the fel- 
low is wrong make it convenient to keep away from him. But if a 
stranger was to ride up to Sam’s cabin at night he’d stand a fine 
chance to get his head shot off.” 

“It’s a wonder he didn’t take a shot at me,” I remarked. 

“Not if you went there in daylight. That’s the strangest thing 
about. him. He has crazy spells after dark, but in the daytime he’s 
all right, as least so far as anybody can tell.” 

“If it wasn’t remorse that drove the fellow crazy, what did?” I 
wanted to know. 

“Herding sheep — being so much alone,” said the girl. And her 
brother added : 

“Sheep-men have a saying that six years of steady herding will 
get the best man ‘a little out of fix up stairs,’ especially if he lives 
a hermit’s life. And Sam has been at it longer than that, he says. 
He sticks to it so closely, too. Every day in the year, cold or hot, 
rain or shine, those sheep must go out to grass. Once in a long 
while he takes half a day off to ride somewhere that he has to go. 
But even then he hurries back as if his life depended on it. Unless 
he drops the sheep business and goes at something else no telling 
how crazy he will get. Cattle-men don’t like sheep, because no oth- 
er animal likes to graze after a sheep. There are some cattle-men 
here, and every settler has cattle; and Sam has got an idea from 
somewhere that they’re all down on him, and would like to run him 
out. But it’s just a delusion of his.” 

“Do you mean to tell me there wasn’t any danger last night?” I 
demanded, incredulously. Such a thing had never occurred to me 
before. 

The young fellow smiled. “Not from the cattle-men — no more 
than there is this minute. Sam did have some trouble where he 
came from, I understand. Somebody stuck a few warnings on his 
door, and Sam rounded up his sheep and traveled. But there never 
has been the slightest trouble where he is now. He has a flock of 
several hundred head; but there’s plenty of grass for them and all 
the other stock here, and a good deal to spare. 

“But get down and hitch your pony. You’re at the end of your 
hunt now. After breakfast I’ll saddle up and ride out with you, 
and we’ll soon bring in your lost ox.” 

The girl now left off her milking and hurried away to the house. 
I dismounted, turning Dick loose to graze, and climbed over into the 
pen to help with the cows. There were still three to be attended to. 
While I roped the calves and pulled them off, the young fellow did 
the milking. We talked all the time, and when the last cow was 
stripped and her calf turned loose we had arrived at a very friendly 
footing. 

His name was Frank Booth. The family had come here from 
Missouri three years before. They owned a good farm here in the 
creek valley, and better improvements than most of the settlers. 

“My sister and I are alone just now,” he explained. “Father 
and mother left home nearly two weeks ago to visit our married 
sister, down close to Waco. We’re expecting them back tomorrow 
or next day — don’t know just when.” 

We now started for the house, Frank carrying one bucket of milk 
and I the other. He took the buckets into the kitchen and left them 
on the table. After washing, out by the well, and getting ready for 
breakfast, we entered the principal room of the house and sat down. 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


27 


Jeadv announce that breakfast was 

and kitch'en which was both dining room 

Frank said, “this is Travis Holloway. He used to live 

ollect Tt you rec- 

ollect. It was the only county between us and the Kansas line.’’ 

handn/^n^ ^ friendly smile and a warm, firm 

handclasp that I have never forgotten. She was not quite fifteen, 
and though not large was as tall as she would ever be. In appear- 
ance she was m marked contrast to her big, light-haired brother, 
her hair being dark. The most noticeable thing 
about her was her alert, wide-awake look. While not at all bold in 
her ways, she was more friendly than timid. Hed face, viewed from 
the standpoint of my nearly seventeen masculine years, was very at- 
tractive to the eye. 

another Missourian,” she said smiling up at me 
confidently. As we’re from adjoining counties, I almost feel that 
we ve been neighbors, and are acquaintances already.” 

“No, Pm not quite a Missourian,” I had to tell her. “I happened 
to be born in Texas. But my father and mother came from Mis- 
souri, and weVe been back there since. We lived there four years, 
and most of my mother’s relatives live up there somewhere — those 
that don’t live in Kansas or Iowa or Illinois.” 

“Then you’re a Texan, a sure-enough Texan, are you? Most of 
the people one meets here were born somewhere else. Oh, I know! 
They named you Travis for the hero of the Alamo, didn’t they?” 

“That’s right. I was named for Colonel Travis, the commander 
at the Alamo.” 

“I’ve read all about him, in the History of Texas,” cried the girl, 
her dark eyes shining. “Only I pronounced his name with the a 
long — Trayvis — instead of the short sound you give it. I can’t for- 
get those words: ‘Thermopylae had its messenger of defeat; the 
Alamo had none.’ Wasn’t it grand — and awful? Are you as brave 
as your distinguished namesake? He died rather than retreat or 
surrender.” 

Remembering how badly frightened I had been the night before, 
at nothing, I looked dowm. 

“No, I’m not,” I had to answer. “I’d be a failure at the hero 
business.” 

The girl and her brother laughed, and we sat down and went to 
eating. 

During the meal it developed that we three had one ambition in 
common — to get an education. Good schools were very scarce in 
this part of Texas at the time. But in a little town over on the 
Brazos two brothers, both ministers, both fine scholars and fine- 
looking men, and both young and full of enthusiasm, had opened a 
mixed school. Though its age was less than half a dozen years, so 
many young men and women had flocked to it that it now num- 
bered several hundred students and nearly a score ot teachers, and 
its reputation had covered the big state. 

Frank and his sister had a catalogue from^ this school, and so 
had I. And we were all planning to enter it just as soon as we 
could. The fact that we expected to meet again, put us at once on 
the friendliest terms. 


CHAPTER VI. 


FRIENDS AND A FELLOW TRAVELER. 


F rank booth was an easy-going, good-natured fellow, not 
quite eighteen years old, and brighter out of books than in 
them. Stella, though three years younger, had already out- 
stripped her brother in some of her studies. And, like myself, she 
had read everything she could put her hands on in this country of 
few books. She was not only remarkably bright and wide-awake 
but a bundle of energy and ambition. Their plans for getting an 
education were, I soon found, mostly of her making. 

I myself had not been in school for almost two years; but I had 
read Aesop’s Fables and Roman History in Latin, and knew some 
algebra, a little geometry, and a little — a very little — Spanish. 
Neither of my new friends had ever studied any language except 
their own; and the fact that I had explored some of the mysteries 
of a strange, dead tongue gave me a standing with Frank and Stella 
Booth that would have been hard for me to attain otherwise. 

“We had planned to enter school this fall,” Stella said during the 
meal, “but father thinks now that he won’t have money enough to 
send both of us. I wanted Frank to go alone — he’s so much older 
than I am, and of course has more need to be in school. But he 
won’t go without me. Says he must have me with hirn, to spur him 
on to study hard.” 

“She’s a pretty sharp spur,” spoke up Frank, smilingly. 

“No sharper than I ought to be — for you,” she answered, smiling- 
ly also. For they were very courteous to each other, this brother 
and sister. “Then I proposed that we both go, and economize by 
renting a little house and boarding ourselves. I could do the work 
foi two, and never miss the time. I even wrote to President Clark 
about it, and he wrote back that two or three of the girl students 
did that very thing last year — kept house for themselves and their 
brothers. I was just wild to go. ‘ I’ve read of plenty of men that 
worked their way through college, but never of a woman. Though 
I can’t see why girls shouldn’t do that kind of thing just as well 
as boys.” 

“They could — they all could if they were as work-brittle as my 
sister Stella,” Frank remarked. 

“Oh, I like to work! I like to make things go!” cried the girl. 
“I can stand anybody but a lazy somebody.” 

“No insinuations, if you please, ma’am,” interrupted her brother. 
\ “Oh, Frank’s not lazy. He would be, just a little bit, if I’d let 
him, but I won’t. Of course I won’t. I’d make life a burden to him 
if he were half as lazy as some people I know. But I’ve got off the 
subject. As I was saying, I wanted to go to school and keep house, 
but father and mother have decided that we’d better wait for an- 
other cotton crop. And we expect to have some cattle to sell next 
fall, too. Then we can go as boarding students and have nothing 
to do but mind our books. Father says, ‘One thing at a time. Work 
when you work and study when you study.’ But I can do both; or 
could if I had half a chance. When do you expect to go?” she in- 
quired of me. 

“That all depends. For awhile I counted on getting off this fall 


29 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


—this coming fall. When I gave that up, I thought I could start 
next year without fail. But now I don^t feel even half-way sure 
about that.” 

^ ‘‘Oh, what a pity— what a great pity!” said Stella, sympathizingly. 

it would be so nice if Frank and I could meet you over there — so 
much better than going among utter strangers.” 

“Oh, ril be there sooner or later. You can drive a nail into that,” 
I assured her. “I expect to go and keep going till I graduate, if it 
takes me fifteen years.” 

“That’s the way to talk!” cried the girl, enthusiastically.-' “If 
Frank would only talk like that! But I do wish you could go next 
year, when we do. Why can’t you?” 

“Well, you see, it’s this way,” I explained. “When we moved up 
to the Little Pecan Creek country, father had money enough to buy 
all the land he cared for, and a few hundred more to improve it 
with. But he wanted the best land; and the piece he picked out was 
part of a big survey — a tract of about seventeen hundred acres. 
The owner lived away down in south Texas. But father was so 
eager for that particular piece of ground that he drove eighty miles 
to Waco — that’s our nearest railroad. There he took a train and 
went to see the owner. The man was willing to sell the whole tract, 
but not part of it. He was willing to sell for part cash, though; 
and rather than miss getting the land he wanted father planked 
down all the money he had, and signed notes and a mortgage on the 
land for the balance. So we’ve got a big tract of good land, but 
we’re nearly two thousand dollars in debt. Our crop’s on new ground, 
and won’t turn out much this year. I doubt if we can pay the in- 
terest on what we owe — at twelve per cent. — without selling our 
cattle. Part of the principal has to be paid each fall, too. The man 
has already agreed to postpone this fall’s payment. But that means 
a double payment for next fall; and father says he can’t see how 
we’re going to meet that and the interest, let alone finding money 
for my schooling.” 

“Why don’t you sell off the land you don’t need?” inquired Frank. 

“Father did sell a little of it, to some people we knew near Austin. 
They came a few weeks after we did. But he had to sell that on 
time. He’d be glad enough to get rid of the rest — all except the 
five hundred acres he wants to keep. But there’s nobody to sell it 
to yet.” 

“Maybe some new settlers will come in this fall and buy all you 
have to sell,” suggested hopeful Stella. 

“Yes, maybe they will — I’m hoping they will; but I’m afraid they 
won’t,” I answered. “You see, it’s a long, long way to a railroad, 
and people don’t usually plunge so deep into the backwoods. They 
don’t like to wagon their cotton so far to market. That’s one thing 
that makes me so glad to find my ox. Work-cattle are high, and it 
took every cent we could rake and scrape to buy Lep and Coaly. 
But we had to have them to break new ground with.” 

“Have you no other team?” Frank inquired. 

“Yes, father has a team of horses, but they’re rather light for 
such heavy plowing. We’ve got a big lot of new ground to break 
this fall and winter, but you can’t buy another ox — another yoke of 
oxen it would be. People won’t usually split a team. But without 
a heavy team we can’t get much new ground broken; and without 
the new ground we can’t put in much of a crop; and without a big 
cotton-crop we can’t hope to meet the payments and interest on our 
land. So we’d stand a fine chance to lose both the land and all the 
money father paid on it. Then we’d have to pull up and roll out 
somewhere and start over again. And it would be years and years 


30 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


before I or my brother — he’s five years younger than I am — before 
we could hope to see the inside of a school room. I mean a good 
school. ‘ We’ve got some neighborhood, log-house affairs, where the 
children learn to spell a little and read a little and cipher a little.” 

“So there was a great deal depending upon your overhauling that 
spotted ox, eh?” Frank remarked, thoughtfully. “Well, I’m glad 
your hunt has turned out all right.” 

“So am I,” declared Stella. “But I should think you’d be afraid 
to work such a great-horned, fierce-looking fellow as that.” 

“Afraid of Lep ! Why, you could look Texas over without finding 
a milk-cow gentler or better natuied than he is. I can handle him 
from his head to his heels. I can crawl under him or over him, or 
do anything else I want to with him. Instead of trying to hurt any- 
body with his long horns, he always turns his h-ad slowly and 
cautiously when I’m close to him for fear of hurting me accidentally.” 

“You can’t judge by appearances,” observed Frank. 

After breakfast — and a good breakfast the young cook had set 
before us — Frank and I went out into the cotton-field and carried 
in some big ripe watermelons, which we stored away in the milk- 
house to keep cool. Afterwards we unsaddled Dick, and Frank in- 
sisted upon giving him a liberal feed of corn and oats. While the 
pony was eating we went to the orchard and gathered a basketful 
of fat, red-cheeked peaches. 

We had intended to ride out before dinner in search of the cattle. 
But the day was now growing sultry, and when Frank proposed that 
we wait till the afternoon I readily agreed. After that We busied 
ourselves with shelling peas, peeling peaches and similar work. 

Stella gave us a good dinner, with peach cobbler for dessert. She 
rose high in my estimation as a cook; and rose even higher by feed- 
ing Vic abundantly, without being asked. Frank and I helped to 
wash and wipe the dinner dishes. After that we all sat on the front 
porch and talked. By this time we were calling one another by our 
first names, and were as. well acquainted as if we had lived together 
> ears instead of hours. 

So congenial were we that Frank now proposed that, instead of 
starting home with Lep next morning, I should remain with him 
and his sister for a few days. I objected that I ou^ht to get home 
as early as possible, to begin plowing; but Frank insisted that I 
ought also to give my pony a rest before starting back. Stella 
joined her persuasions to his, with the result that I consented to 
remain at least another day. 

As soon as the shadows began to grow long and the weather cool- 
er, Frank saddled a horse and I my pony, and we rode out in quest 
of the cattle. They were not so easily found as we had expected, 
and it was well on toward night when we came upon them, in some 
scattering woods. 

“Here they are at last!” my companion sang out, on catching sight 
of the little drove. 

“But Lep — he’s not here,” I replied, gazing around blankly. 

“Oh, he’s close about somewhere,” Frank assured me. 

“But we could hear his bell.” 

“He may be lying down. It won’t take us long to scare him up.” 

But after scouring all the surrounding woods for an hour, we 
had convinced ourselves that Lep had abandoned his recent com- 
panions and started on his travels again. 

“The sly old rascal!” I exclaimed, irritably, on learning that he 
had escaped. “I’ll make him pay for this when I get him yoked to 
a plow-beam again. And the worst of the trouble is nobody knows 
whether he’s been gone tv^o hours or two days.” 

“That’s so,” answered Frank, soberly. “We ought to have started 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


31 


out early this morning, instead of waiting. Then we might have 
found him. But never mind! We’ll nab him yet before he travels 
many miles. I’ll ride with you tomorrow morning, and it won’t take 
us long to strike his trail and track him down.” 

‘T’d like to have company, Frank, but I’m not going to put you 
to as much trouble as that.” 

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” was the cheerful reply. “I could live 
in the saddle this fine weather. Guess it was my fault, too, that you 
missed your ox. Believe we’ll drive our cattle home as we go.” 

We rounded them up and started, but Frank soon made another 
discovery. Two of his cattle, a yearling steer and a two-year-old 
heifer, were missing. 

“I recollect now,” he said. “Those two animals acted like they’d 
fallen in love with your ox. Maybe they admired his horns, and 
hoped to grow some just like them — no telling. Anyhow, they kept 
hanging around him like two little boys around a big one. And 
there’s only one conclusion: they’ve followed him off. There are 
three runaway cattle now instead of one.” 

“That’s right. And it’s a pity, too, Frank. I’m sorry to miss Lep, 
but sorrier to have him leading your young cattle astray.” 

“Oh, rest easy about that, Travis. I intended to go with you any- 
way, and now I have to go. It’s all the same. If Stella had some- 
body to stay with her — but I can arrange that. There’s a young man 
and his wife living just below us on the creek. I’ll sret them to come 
up for a night or two, till we get back or the folks come home. 
We’ll have those runaways back here in three or four days at the 
longest.” 

“Don’t be too sure about that,” cautioned I, grown wise from ex- 
perience. “That old longhorn of mine is a traveler. And he seems 
to have an instinct for eluding pursuit.” 

“Well, three or four days or three or four weeks, we’ll camp on 
their trail till we run them down,” declared Frank. 

“Now that’s too bad — too bad!” exclaimed Stella, when told that 
the three cattle were gone and must be followed, “It will spoil your 
visit.” 

“Not a bit of it,” spoke up her brother. “It will only postpone it. 
He must spend at least a few days with us after we get back.” ' 

“Yes, we shall expect you to stay, and get acquainted with our 
father and mother,” said his sister. “I’m glad of one thing: it 
vvon’t be so lonely for you, now that Frank is to keen you company.” 

“No, but you’ll find it very lonely here. I’m afraid.” 

“Oh, one doesn’t get lonely at home. There are too many things 
to do and think about, and books and papers to read. And mother 
will be at home with me in a day or so, and father.” 

“I’m going down to get Tom Jones and his wife to come up and 
stay with you at night,” said her brother. 

“Huh! What do you want them to stay with me for? What will 
hurt me? I’m not afraid of the dark!” 

“No, of course not. But it will be lonely here for you at night, 
and I want you to have company.” 

Scarcely had Stella learned that her brother and I expected to be 
off next morning, when she fell to cooking us a supply of eatables 
to carry with us. Various things that would keep several days she 
prepared, till Frank had pretty well filled a pair of Capacious saddle- 
bags which he proposed to take. Besides these he would carry a 
slicker, and he had laid us out a blanket apiece. 

“Look out that you don’t load us down with one thing and an- 
other,” I warned him. “If you do we may never overtake these 
cattle this side of the Rio Grande.” 


32 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


“We can make better time by carrying a full commissary depart- 
ment, I think,’’ he answered. 

That night I penned a letter home, borrowing paper and envelope 
and stamp for the purpose from my new friends. After detailing 
my experiences up to date, I explained that Lep was not far ahead, 
and that from here on I should have a traveling companion. I also 
assured father that I would drop him a line every time I came to a 
postoffice. 

This letter Frank carried down and left with the people that were 
to stay with Stella, to be mailed. 

We fed our horses well that night*, and were up long before day- 
light to feed them again. By the time there was light enough to 
see we had eaten our breakfast, girted on our saddles and were 
ready to start. As he was tying the saddle-bags behind his saddle, 
Frank showed me a big-mouthed, dangerous-looking six-shooter that 
he was about to stow away in their lighter end. 

“It might come in pretty handy, and we’d better have it with us,” 
he remarked. “When we first settled here the Comanches raided 
the country a few times, and this is what father carried. Sometimes 
he would let me wear it, and I always felt very important when I 
got it buckled around me. It’s against the law to ‘tote’ it in a scab- 
bard now in this country. But the law says that a traveler may 
carry it in his saddle-bags or other baggage. I know that because 
father is justice of the peace here. This is not a very good six- 
shooter. It has seen better days. But it’s a deadener just th^e same.” 

As we were starting, Stella proposed to keep Vic till our return, 
and I readily consented. “That is, if she will stay with you,” I 
explained. 

“Oh, she likes me and I like her, and she’ll stay all right — never 
fear about that. She’s a nice little thing. But to make sure. I’ll 
shut her up till you’re gone. Then she’ll have to stay.” 

She took the little dog into a room and left her there, closing both 
doors and windows securely. 

“A short journey and a prosperous one!” the girl called after us 
from the front gate as we rode away, waving her good-bye. 

Before we had got out of sight of the house there was a crash and 
the 'jingle of broken glass behind us, and a minute later Vic came 
running, with some slight cuts on her nose. She had jumped tnrough 
a window pane. 

“Oh, never mind the glass,” Frank said, when I had stopped and 
turned. “We’ve got a spare one or two. It’s not needed now. I’ll 
putty it in when we get back.” 

“I got Vic five years ago in Missouri, when I was a small boy and 
she was a little puppy,” I explained. “She doesn’t know what it is 
to stay away from home unless she’s with some of the family.” 

We now struck the road we thought Lep had probably followed, 
and were soon riding it at a brisk gait. There were numerous cat- 
tle tracks in it, and we felt practically sure that some of them had 
been made by our cattle. 

“A good deal pleasanter to have company on a hunt like '^his — 
don’t you think so, Travis?” Frank remarked, not long after we had 
got well under way. 

“Yes, it is that — ever so much pleasanter,” I answered heartily. 
“But my old longhorn has brought you a lot of trouble.” 

“No, he didn’t,” Frank protested. “I like trips of this kind. And 
to tell you the truth, it’s a wonderful relief to find somebody that 
has an ambition to do something besides turn his hat up behind and 
down before, and wear high-heeled boots and spurs and spit tobac- 
co. That’s the kind of boys we have around here — mostly. Stella 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


33 


has two or three ardent admirers of that kind, and when I tease her 
about them she gets so mad she’ll hardly speak to me. They like 
to station themselves where she can see them, and then go pegging 
about on their high heels with their spurs jangling to attract her 
attention. Sometimes she laughs at them, but usually she scorns to 
see them. With their boots and spurs they imagine themselves 
dead-shot lady-killers.” 

I laughed at his description. That type of young man was alto- 
gether too common. 

Houses were far from plentiful, and we halted at every one to 
make inquiries. At length we found a man who had seen Lep and 
hit. two younger followers pass. 

That was the day before, however. If they had traveled steadily, 
they must have a pretty good start of us by now. JVe pushed on 
till noon, then halted for dinner. But we were in the saddle again 
as soon as our horses had grazed and rested. 

An hour later we came to where the road forked, one branch lead- 
ing south and the other southwest. The number of tracks here pre- 
vented us from trailing our cattle; but we thought it probable that 
they would travel southward. So we turned our horses’ heads in 
that direction. 

Two or three miles farther on we found a settler and questioned 
him. Lep and his traveling companions had not been seen here. 
Still we pushed on till we had passed two more houses. 

Having heard nothing, we now became convinced that this was 
the wrong road, and we turned back. A few miles brought us to 
^the forks of the road, and we started out on the other fork. 

We passed no houses now, but at one place we made out the tracks 
of three cattle in the road. This discovery encouraged us to push on. 

The day had been warm to sultriness, and late in the afternoon 
a black cloud rose slowly in the west and northwest. 

“They’re having a big rain over there somewhere,” Frank re- 
marked as we rode along. “That must be up about the head of the 
Cowhouse River.” 

Higher and higher crept the cloud, till an hour before night, the 
sun went out in thick gloom. The muttering and grumbling of dis- 
tant thunder could now be heard sometimes. 

“That’s beginning to look like a storm,” I observed, turning in the 
saddle to gaze at that inky mountain of blackness. 

“Yes, very much like a storm,” Frank agreed. “We may have a 
bad night. I like to camp out in fine weather; but such a night as 
this promises to be I’d rather have a board or two over me, thank 
you. Hope we may discover a house about camping time.” 

■ Heartily I echoed the wish, and we pushed ahead. The country 
seemed utter wilderness here, and no sign of' a human habitation 
appeared. 


CHAPTER VII. 


■STORM-BOUND IN THE HAUNTED CABIN. 

A t last we met a horseman, and stopped him. 

“No, I didn^t meet no cattle travelin’ along the road, he in- 
formed us, in reply to our inquiries. “But I do recollect seein^ 
a spotted steer^ lyin' in the shade, a good piece off to one side. He had 
long horns and wore a bell, and there was some other cattle 
with 'im. I didn’t pay much attention to them, though.” 

“That’s Lep and company; no doubt about that, I guess,” Frank 
remarked to me. 

“Where did you see them — how far back?” I inquired of the 
horseman. 

“Oh, sever’l miles — I don’t recollect. It was durin’ the heat of the 
day.” 

“And whereabouts on this road shall we find a house?” Frank 
wanted to know. 

“Must be ten or twelve miles to the first one anybody lives in.” 

“Is there an empty house closer — one that we could find shelter in 
if the storm comes down on us?” I said to the man. 

“Yes, one. That’s five or six miles back. It’s half a mile west ‘ 
of the road. But you can see the roof if you look close. You won’t 
want to spend a night in that, though, I guess.” The fellow grinned. 
“Why not?” demanded Frank. 

“Because — well, everybody says it’s — ha’nted. They call it the 
ha’nted cabin. Nobody that knows the place would stay all night 
there for love or money. It hain’t been lived in for years and years. 
Never was lived in much.” 

“Oh, we’ll stay there if we don’t find a better place. The ha’nts 
won’t bother us, and we won’t bother them,” lausrhed Frank. • 

“But why do people say the place is ha’nted?” I wanted to know, 
curiously. 

“Had enough to make it ha’nted,” the horseman replied. “It was 
built some fifteen years ago; and less than a week after the settler 
moved into it the whole family was murdered and scalped by the 
Comanches. Bloody endin’ they come to.” 

We were both much interested, and Frank said: 

“Seems to me now I’d heard of that place before. What kind of 
ha’nts do people see there?” 

The man laughed a shivery laugh.. “Some think they see one 
thing and some another. But it’s mostly what they hear that scares 
’em into fits — screams and groans and yells and sech like. Enough 
to make a feller’s hair stick straight up. they say.” 

“Did you ever spend a night there?” I questioned. 

“Ever spend a night there? Well, I ruther guess not. Not for 
five hundred dollars I wouldn’t. I don’t hang around no ha’nt-dens 
much any time, I can tell you, let alone at night.” 

He rode on his way, and we ours. Higher and higher climbed 
the cloud, and thicker and thicker deepened the gloom. At length 
we looked off to our right and could make out the roof of a house, 
barely distinguishable among the tree-tops. 

“Yonder’s the famous ha’nted cabin!” exclaimed Frank. “Glad 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


35 


we got here while there’s light enough to see it. No time to lose, 
either. Bad storm brewing, or Fm a false prophet.” 

Ihe deeper gloom of night was already settling down, and the 
utter silence that goes before a storm was in the air as we road up 
to that cabin in the woods. 

“Gloomy old place, that,” Frank remarked. “If there was any 
other shelter within reach, don’t know but I’d vote to give this the 
go-by. But I d rather run against a whole caviyard of ha’nts than 
to get a soaking.” 

1, > + ha’nted house or the storm, and I choose the 

saddl ^ every time. Here goes!” I swung myself out of the 

Frank did the same. “Of course that ha’nt story is all stuff,” he 
declared, rather loudly, perhaps by way of propping up our falling 
courage. For in the gathering gloom there certainly did seem to 
be something grewsome about the place. I did not reply. 

^ We had dismounted at the end of the house, and now lost no time 
in stripping off our saddles. 

“What makes these logs so black?” Frank suddenly burst' out, 
walking up to the wall. But after rubbing his hand over them, he 
added, wonderingly : “Why, they’re charred— burnt. Somebody 
must have been trying to set fire — ” 

He looked at me and I looked at him. Both of us had guessed, 
what we afterwards learned to be the truth. The savages, after 
murdering the family, had piled brush against the end of the house 
and tried to burn it; but the logs, being green, had refused to take 
fire. The charred wall remained, and would remain while the cabin 
stood, a black reminder of the black deed enacted here. 

Neither of us spoke of the matter again. Somehow the discovery 
had produced a depressing effect on our feelings. 

The house was in the woods, but rank grass grew among the trees, 
and crowded close up to the cabin itself. We selected the best spots, 
we could find and lariated our horses there, as close to the house as 
we could get them. Then we walked around the uninviting structure. 

It contained two rooms. One, the larger, was built of logs. The 
other, a side-room or lean-to, had been made by nailing boards — 
rived clapboards — to upright pieces. In one gable-end, near the 
rough-stone chimney, gaped a good-sized hole. 

“Not a very cosy shelter, but a long-shot better than none,” Frank 
observed. “But we’d better get inside. I felt a drop of rain just 
then. This storm can’t hold off much longer.” 

Taking up our saddles and other things, we went around to the 
open front door. Vic had been inside, making a tour of inspection, 
and now came to meet us. 

It was already dark within, and before entering Frank struck a 
match and held it 'up. 

Most deserted houses lose everything that can be carried away, 
such as floors and doors and windows. But this place’s history and 
uncanny reputation had protected it. The floor, which was of 
puncheons, or hewn slabs, remained as it had always been. There 
were no windows. The shutter for the front door was off its wooden 
hinges, but it. was lying inside, and we afterwards replaced it. A 
loft of puncheons, supported by big joists, hid all but one small 
patch of the roof, and the hole in the gable was not visible inside. 
A wide fireplace occupied a large part of one end. Dirt and leaves 
littered the floor. The room was rather large and very gloomy, and 
the corners and the fireplace and the under side of the loft were a 
black tangle of spider-webs. 

The match went out, and Frank struck another. As he did so, 


36 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


there was a whirring and flapping of wings overhead, whether of 
owls or bats, or both, we could not tell. 

A shutterless door connected the two rooms. The lean-to had no 
floor but the ground; and the winds had swept it half knee-deep 
with dead leaves. An open door led out of it on the far side. After 
a hasty view, for the duration of a match, Frank said: 

“Not a very inviting place to spend a night.’’ 

“Looks like there might be scorpions and centipedes and — and 
spooks around here,” I answered, shivering. “No wonder the old 
house wears a bad name. Let’s kindle a fire. That’ll liven things 
up a little, maybe.” 

An occasional drop of rain was spatting the roof, but the long- 
threatened storm had not yet begun. It was now almost as dark 
outside as inside; but we went out and groped around a few minutes, 
then came back with our hands full of sticks and brush. The fire- 
place, as well as the old chimney itself, was almost choked with 
spider-webs and the trash that had lodged in them ; but with a^roar 
the flames soon swept them clean. Now we put up the shutter and 
closed the front door. The firelight scattered the gloom, but seem- 
ed powerless to banish it altogether. 

Frank’s saddle-bags were soon open between us, and though our 
surroundings had depressed our spirits they had not depressed our 
appetites. 

The storm was still holding off when we began our supper. We 
talked of everything but “ha’nts.” For some reason neither of us 
cared to allude to them again. 

In the midst of our meal came a roaring among the tree-tops out- 
side, and almost at the same time big rain drops began to patter on 
the roof. Slowly they spattered the clapboards at first, then faster 
and harder, harder and faster. Presently both of us gave a fright- 
ened start. Something had struck the roof a resounding whack. 

“What was that?” exclaimed Frank, turning a startled, puzzled 
face toward me. 

“Somebody must have hurled a stone,” I replied. ' 

Soon another stone-like object smote the clapboards, then another 
and another, all with deafening violence. Now the storm burst upon 
us in its fury. 

“Hail!” shouted Frank, leaping to his feet. “Come on quick! 
We’re in for a hail-storm.” 

Out we both rushed into the darkness; and though the water and 
ice pelted us frightfully, we soon had our horses safe in the shelter 
of the shed-room. There we had to stand and hold them to keep 
them quiet; for the lightnings were now’ gleaming and the thunders 
crashing constantly, and the pelting of the hailstones" on the roof 
had turned to a thunderous roar. Soon the lightning-flashes showed 
the ground white outside with deepening ice. 

The roof, old and rotten as it was, proved a good one; and though 
the hail must have split many of the boards, but little water came in. 

Soon the hail slackened and ceased, but the rain kept falling in 
floods. Now we fastened a stick across the door of the lean-to, and 
left our horses inside. Having rekindled our fire, we finished our 
supper. The hail had chilled the air. 

For an hour after supper we sat around our little fire, waiting 
for the rain to stop, till all our gathered sticks had burnt out. We 
had intended to lariat our horses on the grass again; but the rain 
kept up its steady patter on the roof, and we left them where they 
were. 

“If we wake after the rain holds up we can take them out then,” 
Frank remarked, while we were crawling into our blankets. “Other- 
wise we shall have to graze them a while in the morning.” 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


37 


Once afterwards I was half awake, but the rain was still beating 
its soft tattoo on the roof, and to its music I marched a double-quick 
into dreamland again. 

It was Vic^s fierce growling, almost in my ear, that finally arous- 
ed me. Now I became conscious of something or somebody moving 
about a few feet away. And while I was wondering what it could 
be the most blood-freezing, unearthly scream or shriek that had 
ever startled my ears rang out in the very room with us. 

Both Frank and I were on our feet instantly, wonderfully wide- 
awake now. 

“Did — did you ever hear the like?’’ Frank whispered, half gasped. 

“No, I never did — in all my born days I never did!” I whispered 
back. “It must have been that — that — that thing.” 

We stood still and listened. Again something or somebody began 
to move about over the puncheons, just where we could not tell. It 
had been easy in broad daylight to declare our disbelief in “ha’nts.” 
But here in the pitchy darkness, with those mysterious noises close 
by, and that awful scream ringing in our ears, our disbelief was 
very seriously shaken. Vic, backed up against me, kept growling, 
but in a badly frightened way. Putting my hand down to quiet her, 
I found every hair on her slim little body standing erect, from anger. 
And I have a strong suspicion that the hairs of my head may have 
been doing likewise — from a very different cause. 

“What could it have been, Frank?” I whispered. But he did not 
reply. Those mysterious movements had begun again. Then, sud- 
denly, that same blood-curdling scream started up again. And 
scarcely had it started when another one joined in, and then others, 
all in the same room with us! 

That was too much for our overstrained nerves. With one accord 
we started for the door. 

“Let’s get out of here!” I cried. 

“The quicker the better!” shouted Frank. 

And even before that medley of shrieks and screams had died 
away we had found the door, torn it open and rushed forth into the 
rain and darkness ! 

A hundred yards I fled, with my hands held before me to ward 
off unseen trees. The darkness appeared solid. How much farther 
I might have run in my panic is uncertain, but I was suddenly stop- 
ped by plunging headlong over something. 

“Frank, where are you?” I shouted, under the impression for the 
moment that the ha’nts had seized me, and that I might need assis- 
tance to break loose from them. 

“Here I am!” he called back, from thirty or forty yards ahead. 
Like myself, he had not been letting the grass grow under his feet. 
“What’s the matter, Travis?” he called again, this time coming in 
search of me. 

But now I was on my feet and had learned what had happened. 

“Nothing serious,” I replied. “I just ran over a tree or log or 
something, and turned a few somersets. What was that — that — 
those awful things, anyhow?” 

“Sounded like — like the people the Comanches murdered.” 

“Yes, it did,” I agreed with him. Our excited imaginations were 
equal to anything just now. 

“Reckon it could have been the ha’nts that fellow told about?” 

‘‘I — I — don’ — don’t believe in ha’nts,” was my reply, through teeth 
that would persist in chattering. We were bare-footed, and the 
rain, still falling slowly, sent a chill through me. 

“Neither do — did I. But what else could it have been, Travis?” 

That was more than I could tell him. So we groped our way to- 


88 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


gether, then stood still in the rain and the black night, waiting and 
listening and shivering. Our horses could be heard snorting loudly. 
Vic, who had followed me, sometimes barked, and sometimes reared 
up against me and whined anxiously. Still we stood and listened. 

Strange sounds were issuing from the old house. Soon they grew 
louder. Here Frank uttered a half-angry, half-disgusted exclamation. 

“What a pair of silly cowards we are!” he burst out. “It’s ju.st 
animals — some kind of woods ‘varmints.’ Don’t you hear them fight- 
ing?” 

He was right. Two or more animals could be heard, in furious 
combat. The battle finally came to an end, but they kept snarling 
and spitting at each other. Whether they were wildcats or pan- 
thers, or what they were, we could only guess. 

“But how did they get into the house?” I wanted to know. “The 
front door was shut, and — ” 

“They might have come in through the shed-room,” Frank sug- 
gested. “Oh, if I just had my old six-shooter and a light!” 

The rain, slowly though it fell, was soaking us through and 
through, and we groped our way toward the cabin. The unknown 
“varmints” were still quarreling noisily, growling and screaming 
and hissing by turns. After drawing near where the house was be- 
lieved to be — we could not catch the faintest glimpse of it — I made 
a discovery: 

“Frank, they’re not in the big room at all; I mean down where 
we were. Those sounds come from the roof. The things must be up 
in the loft.” 

“That’s just where they are! They crawled in at that hole in the 
gable-end. Good hiding-place for them up there. The hail or rain 
drove several of them in, and they’re fussing for possession. They 
were screaming at one another when they scared a couple of gumps 
half out of their senses.” 

“And wholly out of their shelter, which is even worse this kind 
of a night,” I shivered. 

“Something’s got to be done,” Frank announced. “I don’t want 
much more of this. I’ve got a match or two in my pocket. Let me 
see if I can strike one.” 

He stood in the door and scratched the match on the inside of the 
log, but all his matches were damp and missed fire. The quarreling 
was still under way up stairs, and he finally stole in, groped about 
till he found the saddle-bags, then sprang back to the door with them. 
Now we were in possession of both matches and a formidable weapon. 

The six-shooter he put into my hands. “Be ready when I strike 
a light,” he whispered. “Might be a panther in there.” 

I grasped the weapon eagerly, and felt my courage rise with a 
bound. As the match flared up, the noises in the loft ceased instant- 
ly. Cocking the six-shooter, I stepped inside, ready to do battle, li 
necessary, to regain possession of our shelter. But the animals we 
had heard, whatever they were, were all in the darkness of the loft. 

Our wood had all been burnt and the fire had gone out; but there 
were plenty of leaves in the lean-to, and we brought in some and 
started a blaze in the fireplace. Not knowing what might be over 
our heads, we moved about noiselessly, and spoke only in whispers. 
Vic, with her eyes fixed on the loft and her sharp little nose sniffing 
the air, kept growling angrily, her hair straight up. 

“Travis,” Frank said, as soon as we got our fire started, “we 
can’t stay in here with that pack of varmints up there. We don’t 
know what minute a panther will jump down on our heads. We’ve 
either got to move out into the rain and give them possession, or 
drive them out.” 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


39 


Tve had all the soaking I want for one night,” I answered, feel- 
ing of my dripping clothes. “We’ll rout them out.” 

“But how?” 

I flourished the six-shooter. “What’s the matter with this? It’s 
big enough to knock over a buffalo or a grizzly.” 

“Rather risky business, tackling panthers in such close quarters,” 
he objected. “I can shoot pretty well with a gun, but no telling 
what I’d hit with that old concern, especially if I got a little nervous. 
And it’s more dangerous to wound a panther than to miss him. Are 
you a pretty good revolver shot?” 

“Ought to be. I was born where every man went with from one 
to three of the things buckled around him. I could shoot my fath- 
er’s six-shooter when I was five years old. Usually I can drive a 
nail at twenty or thirty steps.” 

“Can you? Good! Then you must do the shooting. I’ll hold a 
light for you.” 

Now we began to discuss ways and means. There was but one 
opening into the dark, cavern-like loft, and that was at the end, at 
one side of the fireplace. It was about two feet and a half square. 
The only way I could think of was to climb up the wall till my head 
was above the puncheons, then hold to the logs with one hand and 
shoot with the other. 

“But that old blunderbuss is too heavy. You can’t hold it steady 
with one hand,” objected Frank. 

I agreed with him, and he suggested something else: 

“I’ll tell you, Travis. You get on my shoulders and let me hold 
you up. Then you’ll have both hands free to shoot with.” 

The suggestion seemed a good one, and we made hasty prepara- 
tions to carry it out. Taking some paper from the saddle-bags, he 
tore and twisted it into tapers. Then he squatted down, and I got 
astride his neck, with a leg on each shoulder. 

“Now be ready,” he said, still in cautious tones, as he struck a 
match against the floor. 

My only answer was the tick-tick of the big six-shooter as I 
pulled the hammer back. 

When the paper began to blaze Frank started to rise up with me. 
That he could easily do; for he was a broad-shouldered, well-muscled 
fellow, while I, though rather tall, weighed scarcely a hundred and 
forty pounds. But he suddenly dropped down again. 

“I forgot something. Whatever you do, Travis, keep both hands 
back of the cylinder. That old thingamabob sometimes lets off two 
or three barrels at a pop.” 

Most of the old cap-and-ball six-shooters would do this after their 
tubes got burnt out, so that the caps did not fit closely. 

“Risk me to keep behind the thing,” I answered. 

“And you’d better not hold it too close to my head, either. I don’t 
want to be powder-burnt. And whatever you do, don’t wound one 
of the varmints, especially if they’re panthers. Shoot to kill. Ready 
now!” 

Again he rose up, slowly, this time till my head was above the 
loft. It was like a cave up here, and at first I could see nothing at 
all; but the darkness snarled and growled at me with a chorus of 
frightful voices. A breath of wind fanned my neck, coming in at 
the hole in the gable, not far from my back. Then, steadying him- 
self, Frank reached up the light. 

For a moment or two the whole loft seemed spotted with fiery 
eyes. Then, as the blazing taper itself came above the puncheons, 
I was more than startled to see four good-sized animals of prey in 
the back part of the loft! 


40 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


One, the largest, which I recognized as a panther, was crouching 
on the floor, as if for a spring. But the light, flaming suddenly in 
his eyes, had blinded and frightened him, and he had started back. 
Behind the panther, in a corner, stood another animal, a big wild- 
cat, and over in the other corner crouched two more wildcats. 

There was not a moment to lose. My hands shook from excite- 
ment as I aimed the six-shooter at the panther’s head; but I gripped 
the handle hard to steady them, and sighted at a point between the 
eyes. The taper had nearly burnt out before I got a satisfactory 
aim, but those eyes were still glowing like live coals, and I pulled 
the trigger. 

Instantly the whole loft seemed on Are, and heaven and earth 
crashing together around me! 

After that I seemed vaguely conscious that the house was falling 
to pieces! And a wild, fierce scream rang in my ears as some of the 
animals rushed by me. making for the hole in the gable! 


CHAPTER VIII. 

CUT OFF BY A WALL OF WATER. 

A FEW moments later I was down on the floor, with the smoking 
six-shooter still in my hand. Frank was putting leaves on 
the fire, and Vic was barking. The beating of hoofs could be 
. heard in the distance. The air reeked with burnt powder. 

“What happened,^ Frank? I thought the house was blowing up.’’ 
“Did sound like it, Travis. And I could have made oath I heard 
some of it fall.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me I was to shoot a cannon?” grumbled I, 
as I stooped down and began to examine the weapon by the light of 
the blazing leaves, turning the cylinder with my fingers. Presently 
I straightened up. “No wonder!” I exclaimed. 

Frank looked up at me questioningly. 

“Every barrel went off at once! With six bullets crashing through 
it, it’s a wonder the house didn’t tumble to pieces.” 

“And what did it do to the varmint you shot at?” 

“That’s what I’m going to find out.” 

“Better reload first.” 

He got a little powder-horn, some bullets and a box of caps out 
of the saddle-bags; and while he fed the fire with leaves, I reloaded 
three barrels. 

“Now we’re ready to investigate the loft,” I remarked. “I can’t 
hear anything up there.” 

“No. Guess they’ve all escaped by this time — those not shot or 
scared to death. You light that piece of paper and hold it up, and 
I’ll climb the wall.” 

Up he went, and I held the blazing paper high. 

“What do you see, Frank?” 

“Nothing alive.” He took the paper out of my hand and held it 
still higher. “But there are two dead varmints up here. One’s a 
panther, and the other looks like” — he moved the paper about — 
“like a big wildcat. And that’s what it is.” He climbed down. 
“Pretty good for one shot, Travis.” 

“One shot, do you call that? I’d call it a volley. Why, I ought 
to have killed all four.” 

“You would, I guess, if you’d had them all in range, like you did 
those two. But we’d better see about our horses. Think I heard 
them running off. They must have got out. That was enough to 
scare them out of their hides.” 

Sure enough, both horses were gone. In their panic they had 
plunged through the narrow door, perhaps at the same time, and 
had knocked down the rotten outer wall and run over it. 

“I thought I heard something falling,” said Prank. “The rain 
has about stopped. Guess we’d better stir out and try to round them 
up while we can.” 

I took a look outside “It’s terribly dark. Why not wait till 
morning?” 

“Well, Bob might be somewhere close by when daylight comes, but 
he’s more likely to be twenty miles on the road toward home. And 
as we’re situated now, the loss of a horse would prove a serious 
matter.” 


42 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


“Yes, it would — mighty serious,” I admitted, thoughtfully. 

“Must confess, though, that I don’t know how to go about finding 
them, dark as it is now. We might pass within a dozen yards of 
them without suspecting it.” 

“No, we won’t,” I told him. “If I can get within calling distance 
of Dick, he’ll answer me every time.” 

“Will he? That’s good! Then we’d better get out right away.]’ 

Before starting, however, we found a few dry sticks to kindle with, 
then put on our boots and slickers and brought in some wood from 
outside — enough to make a good fire in the fireplace. Then we lost 
no time in getting out after our horses. 

We had left the door open, that the light might guide us back. 
But before we had gone twenty steps the darkness was like pitch. 
We groped our way along, holding our hands before us. All the 
time I was calling Dick at the top of my voice. 

Presently I heard a crash, and Frank, a few steps ahead of me, 
uttered a half-startled, half-frightened exclamation. Then came a 
splash, seemingly from the depths of the earth. 

Believing that something dreadful had happened, I stopped sud- 
denly. 

“What’s the matter, Frank?” I called out. 

“Matter enough!” came back, seemingly from far away or from 
far down. 

“Where are you?” I called again. 

“I’d like to know myself! I’m in some kind of a hole. Better 
look out! You may tumbled in on top of me.” 

“Are you hurt?” 

“No. But I’m in water up to my arms. This must be an old well.” 

And that was just what the hole proved to be. Years before it 
had been covered over with rails or poles, to keep anything from 
tumbling into it. But these had become rotten with age, and when 
Frank stepped on them, in the dark they had snapped like twigs and 
let him drop through. The place had been a veritable pitfall. 

Cautiously I approached, feeling every inch of my way. Just how 
deep the well was we could not tell in the dark. But undoubtedly 
Frank was several feet down. 

“If we just had a rope!” I exclaimed.. But the only ropes we had 
with us were trailing from the necks of our horses. Rapidly I 
studied the situation. 

“Wait a minute!” I called out. Hurrying back to the cabin, I 
found our bridles, and after fastening their reins together, returned 
and let them down into the darkness. 

“I can hear them hitting the bank up there somewhere,” Frank 
called up. “But they’re not half long enough.” 

Again I returned to the cabin and came back, this time with half 
a dozen blazing sticks in my hand. The rain had now ceased, and 
I kindled a fire for light, on the very brink of the old well. 

“That looks cheerful up there!” cried Frank. “Wish I could start 
up a fire down here, to warm this water.” 

“Anyhow, we can see something now,” I answered, as I moved 
round to the other side, where I could look down. The light fell 
poorly, but I could make out Frank’s head and shoulders, set in a 
background of water, twenty or twenty-five feet below. 

Again I tried the bridles, to see how much too short they were. 
Then I ran to the house and brought all our girts — there were two 
on each saddle — and after fastening them together and to the bridles 
lowered them into the well. By lying flat on the bank, and reaching 
as far as I could, I got the lower end of my improvised rope within 
a few inches of Frank’s fingers. But even if he could have reached 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


43 


it, it would have been impossible for me to pull him out, heavy as he 
was; nor could he have held on long enough if I could. 

“Can you think of anything else, Frank 

We discussed every plan that seemed even half-way possible. 

Among them was the cutting of an “Indian ladder” — a long pole 
with short limbs left on it. But that would require an ax. 

“You can’t get me out of here without a rope,” was Frank’s con- 
clusion; and mine as well. 

“Then I must find our horses. Can you stay here till I make a 
round, Frank?” 

“That I can,” he replied. “In fact, it’s the only thing I can do 
just now. But find them as soon as possible, Travis. This water 
must have run in after the hail-storm, and it’s chilling me faster 
than I’m warming it.” 

Frank rose suddenly in my estimation. I have always loved 
cheerful people. 

“Never fear. I’ll get you out!” I called down, rather rashly per- 
haps. “A fellow that can joke after taking the tumble you took, 
and after being in ice-water as long and as deep as you’ve been in 
it, is too valuable to lose.” 

I started off at a run, but soon got beyond the circle of light and 
had to move cautiously. As I advanced I kept calling, so loudly that 
the woods rang with it: “Co’up, Dick! Co’up, Dick! Co’up, pony! 
Co’up! Co’up!” 

After getting so far away that I was in danger of losing the 
light, I began to circle about it. And as I circled I kept calling, 
anxiously calling, tremulously calling. 

Having made what seemed to me a complete circle, without re- 
ceiving the slightest reply, I had almost concluded that I should have 
to return without a rope. But to go back and tell Frank that I had 
failed was little less than dreadful. So I pushed out farther into 
the darkness. At length my perseverance was rewarded by hear- 
ing a faint nicker. 

As fast as possible I groped my way toward it, and finally came 
upon Dick. The other horse may have been near, but I did not hear 
him, and I could see nothing at all. Even the firelight was no longer 
visible. Leading Dick, I groped my way toward it till it glimmered 
through the trees. Then I moved faster. 

“Here I am! And here’s a rope, Frank!” 

“Good for you, Travis!” came up, more cheerfully than could 
have been expected, out of the gloomy hole. 

The rope was quickly let down. It reached well enough; but 
drawing Frank up, without windlass or pulley, proved a practically 
impossible task. And when he attempted to climb the rope, after 
I had secured it to a tree, he was no more successful. 

“My hands are too numb to grasp it,” he said, the first note of 
discouragement in his voice. 

“Tie it fast around your waist, and I’ll have you out before you 
can wink twice,” I called down, as I started for the house at a run. 

When I came back, my saddle was in one hand and a big punch- 
eon under my other arm. The puncheon I threw across the well. 
And I was careful to smear one edge with wet clay, to keep it from 
wearing the rope. Then I clapped the saddle on Dick. The girts 
were off, and a minute was lost in getting them in place. But they 
were soon fastened hard, and I bridled Dick, tied the end of the la- 
riat to the saddle-horn, and sprang into the saddle. 

“All ready below?” 

“Wait till I find my hat,” came from the well. Then a minute 
later: “Pull ahead!” 


44 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


“All right! Hold hard, and up you come!” I shouted, as I started 
Dick straight away from the well. 

It made the little horse pull, for Frank was a solid fellow. But 
the lariat slipped rapidly over the muddied puncheon, and soon a 
wet, bedraggled, unrecognizable head thrust itself up into the fire- 
light.” 

A minute or two later I had my soaked, half-frozen traveling- 
companion in the house, steaming before the fire. And I kept lug- 
ging in sticks and chunks and short logs till the fireplace, big as it 
was, was roaring like a furnace. 

In spite of his long-continued ice-bath, Frank, wrapped in a cloud 
of steam, was still able to joke. 

“It was an unlucky day for you when my runaway ox stopped to 
lick at your salt-log,” I remarked. 

“Not a bit of it,” he disputed heartily, loyally. “This don’t amount 
to much, thanks to your promptness in dragging me out. sup- 

pose the same thing had happened to you when you were alone. You 
might have soaked in there till you died.” 

“That’s true, Frank, true enough,” I answered, soberly. 

After getting his clothes partly dried, Frank stripped them off 
and hung them before the fire on some sticks, while he himself 
crawled between our blankets to sleep. I piled fresh fuel on the 
roaring, crackling heap, and was soon sleeping by his side. The 
sun was shining when we awoke. 

Up we sprang, eagerly. I was feeling remarkably fresh and vig- 
orous. Frank’s clothes were dry, but stiff and yellow with clay. 

He declared himself none the worse for his unlucky experiences of 
the night. 

We dressed and hurried out in search of his horse. The storm 
itself had utterly disappeared, and the hail had all melted, but its ^ 

ravages were visible everywhere. Most of the leaves were beaten 
off the trees, and here and there we noticed a dead bird. 

“It will surprise me if we find Bob,” Frank remarked, when we 
were well out in the woods. 

But we did; and that before we had gone a hundred yards farther. 

The trailing lariat had got caught in a root and held the horse fast, 
though it left him free to graze. 

“Well, now, wasn’t that a lucky accident?” exclaimed Frank. “If 
we’d had to make a trip back home, those runaway cow-brutes would 
have got a long start of us.” 

After breakfast, thinking it prudent to let our horses graze a little 
longer, we climbed up into the loft and threw down the dead pan- 
ther and the dead wildcat. Vic sniffed around them suspiciously. 

“Do you suppose those varmints were hiding up there when we 
first came in last night?” asked Frank, after we had inspected them. 

“No, I know they were not,” was my answer. “Vic would have 
scented them instantly. They’d been up there before, I’ve no doubt, 
and the storm drove them to shelter.” 

“Yes, that must have been the way of it. But we’ve got to skin 
them. Nobody will ever believe you killed both at one shot if we 
don’t have som.e proof. We can leave the skins at the first house, 
and get them as we come back by with the cattle.” 

“All right,” I agreed. And we soon had the dead animals stripped 
of their hairy coverings. The skins we tied behind our saddles, the 
carcasses being thrown out for a breakfast for the buzzards. A 
little later we were riding on our way. 

After a mile or two we found some new cattle-tracks in the road, 
and felt hopeful that our runaways might have made them. Our 
horses were fresh, and we pushed on rapidly. 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


45 


At length we came to a house — the first house since the deserted 
one — and stopped to make inquiries. 

Yes, tl^m very three brutes passed here not more than an hour 
f-P’ bearded settler informed us. “They was follerin’ the road, 
like thoy knowed whur they wanted to go. And they was trampin’ 
a good, steady gait, too. You ought to overhaul ’em somers over 
about the river. Camped out last night, did you? Must have had 
a rather lively time.” 

No, didn’t camp out, but we had a lively time just the same,” 
laughed Frank. “We spent the night in that old house, a few miles 
back.” 

“What! Not in the ha’nted house?” 

“That’s the place.” 

“And what did you see?” The settler came closer. 

“Oh, we saw sights,” Frank assured him. 

But what did you see — and hear? Did any of the ha’nts show 
themselves?” 

“Indeed they did,” I spoke up. “We saw four, and we killed two 
of them and skinned them.” 

The man stared at me in hopeless, incredulous bewilderment. 

“That’s right,” endorsed^ Frank. ^ “We’ve g-ot the p-oof here with 
us.” He related our experiences with the wild animals, and display- 
ed the two skins. 

The settler was greatly surprised. “Well, now, I wonder if that’s 
what’s been scarin’ folks clean out of their wits all these years. It 
might have been, or it might have been just their imaginations — 
who knows? I never did take a great sight of stock in them wild 
tales.” 

The man readily agreed to take care of the skins for ns till our 
return, and we left them with him. After talking a few minutes 
about the dreadful event that had occurred, so long before, at the 
deserted house, we rode on. 

“Well, our chase is nearing its end,” my companion remarked, as 
we trotted along. We were out on the prairie now. “It has been 
a rather short one, but we had a lot of fun while it lasted.” 

“Yes, it seems to be about over. Old Lep can't well dodge us any 
longer now,” I agreed. “But he would if he had half a chance.” 

Every time we turned a rise we expected to catch sight of cur 
cattle. But we had still not discovered them when we looked down 
into a valley and saw the timber of a stream, which we knew to 
be the Cowhouse River. 

“Wonder if it will be up,” Frank was saying, when our ears de- 
tected a faint roar. 

“Shouldn’t think it would be much, yet, but that sounds like it,” 

I replied. 

The noise seemed all in one direction — up stream. We rode faster. 
Our horses pricked up their ears and gazed toward the roar, which 
kept growing louder. Soon, wondering, we struck a gallop. 

The Cowhouse is a deep, swift stream — deep as to its channel — 
with a rocky bed and high, rocky banks. Much of its course, if not 
all, lies in a broken, half-mountainous country. On the near side, 
at the place we were approaching, there was no timber, the prairie 
terminating in a high, overhanging bank. 

As we reined up near the edge of this bank, the first sight that 
greeted our eyes was bur three runaway cattle, just emerging from 
the stream at the farther side. The river, which was about a’ hun- 
dred and fifty yards wide here, was slightly swollen, and the water 
extended from bank to bank. But it was not deep; Lep and his 
companions had waded it. 


46 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


Eager though we were to overtake our cattle, we little more than 
noticed them as they climbed the farther bank. For that roar, com- 
ing from somewhere up stream, had swelled deafeningly, alarming- 
ly. Our horses pranced about and tried their hardest to run. 

We kept staring toward the awful sound, and our eyes were soon 
rewarded with a sight that made our hearts stand still. 

“A head rise! A wall of water!"’ shouted Frank, excitedly. 

And that was just what we saw coming. Around a bend in the 
river it rolled, with a voice of thunder, foaming, boiling, raging, 
roaring! From bank to bank it stretched, and it must have been 
six or eight feet high. Save where it foamed, it looked an angry 
black. 


CHAPTER IX. 


WATER BOUND ON THE COWHOUSE. 

O N swept the wall of water, resistlessly, raging in its might and 
fury. We watched it with fascinated eyes. Soon it had rolled 
by, and not long afterwards it disappeared around a bend 
below. Behind it the river was a mad torrent. 

“I’d heard of walls of water before, but that’s the first one I ever 
got a glimpse of!” cried Frank. “I wouldn’t have missed it for a 
ten-dollar gold-piece 1 A regular water-spout must have turned 
loose somewhere above here last night.” 

“Well, we’re completely cut off from our cattle.” 

“That’s just what we are,” he replied. We stood gazing across 
the dark, angry river toward where the three objects of our search 
had stopped in the shade of a big tree and were unconcernedly 
chewing their cuds. “So near, and yet so far! Isn’t it tantalizing?” 
he exclaimed. 

“Tantalizing’s no name for it, Frank. Why did we gab so long 
with that bearded fellow? Five minutes sooner we could have ford- 
ed this stream easily. Now the only way to cross is to swim.” 
“Excuse me from swimming that river today, if you please.” 
Dismounting, and hitching our horses to bushes, we walked down 
the road to the water’s edge. The river, we soon discovered, was 
rising very fast — a foot every four or five minutes. Vast quantities 
of driftwood kept floating by, bobbing up and down furiously. Brush, 
logs, trees, rails, cornstalks and similar objects half hid the troubled 
bosom of the stream. Evidently the valleys and valley-farms above 
were already flood swept. Several wash tubs went hurrying by, as 
if running away guiltily from their accustomed drudgery. 

So fast did the water climb that it kept us retreating up the 
bank before it. An army of lizards, spiders and other creeping 
things, routed from under stones by the advancing flood, were also 
making a panic-stricken disordered march up hill. 

“Rise fast, fall fast. Soon up, soon down,” observed Frank. 

“But it won’t be fordable before morning,” I told him. “And no 
telling how many miles more old Lep and your yearlings will put 
behind them by that time.” 

“Can’t be helped, Travis. No ferry-boats along here, I guess, and . 
they wouldn’t dare run if there were any. So there’s no chance to 
get across till this big rise runs out. We might as well go into 
camp and possess our souls in patience.” 

• “Just watch Lep looking across at us,” said I, a little later. “I 
half believe he’s laughing to himself over the shabby trick the river 
played us.” 

“Waiting to get across, are you, boys?” 

We turned quickly. A man was standing on the bank above. 

“Yes. And we seem likely to have a long wait of it,” I answered, 
grumblingly. 

“Where you bound for?” the man wanted to know. 

“We’re bound to catch those three cattle over yonder, as soon as 
the river gives us permission,” Frank replied. 

The settler came down, and we three stood together, discussing the 
flood. He lived half a mile above. 


48 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


“Well, boys, let’s go up to the house,” he soon invited, hospitably. 
“You’re not likely to get over today, and maybe not tomorrow. 
Come up and stay with us.” 

“Much obliged to you, sir,” replied Frank, “but I think we’d bet- 
ter camp here somewhere. We want to keep an eye on those cattle 
over yonder.” 

Lep and his followers were lying down now, in the shade. From 
time to time the spotted fellow would turn his head and gaze across 
at us with mild curiosity. 

“Won’t do a bit of good to watch ’em,” the settler answered. “If 
they want to pick up and mosey on, you can’t help yourselves.” 

“No, that’s what hurts,” I admitted, in an irritated tone. “If we 
just had that old spotted rascal tied to a tree over there, we wouldn’t 
mind waiting.” 

The settler looked thoughtful. “Tell you how we can work that,” 
he said, presently. “See that house on the hill yonder? Jim Edwards 
lives there. He’s got a calf-pasture of ten or fifteen acres. If we 
can catch sight of ’im, we’ll motion ’im down; and then if we can 
once make ’im understand, he’ll look after your cattle for you. Clev- 
er fellow, Jim is.” 

This seemed an easy solution of the difficulty, and we gladly 
walked down with Anderson — that proved to be our settler’s name 
— till we were opposite the house. It stood two or three hundred 
yards back from the river. But, as it happened, both Edwards and 
his wife were on the farther bank, viewing the fast swelling flood. 

The river was still roaring loudly, and not till the three of us had 
nearly torn our throats shouting did we succeed in making the peo- 
ple on the other bank understand what was wanted. But when once 
the man did understand, he readily agreed to hold our cattle in his 
pasture till we could cross over and get them. 

As we three walked back toward the road, Edwards walked up 
the south bank to where the cattle were lying. Driving them up, he 
started off with them, and we watched till they had all disappeared 
among the thick timber of the bottom land. 

“Thank goodness, we’ve got them safe at last!” I exclaimed. Now 
we can rest easy till the river runs down.” 

Frank and I proposed to camp near the road; but Anderson in- 
sisted that we at least go up close to his house to camp. 

“I see another cloud getherin’ up t’wards the head of the river. 
If it keeps on rainin’ up there, you may have to hang around here 
several days.” 

So, leading our horses, we walked up with him. But we stopped 
under a big live-oak on the river bank. Here we established our 
camp, where we could keep watch over the stream’s risings and 
fallings. Anderson invited us to the house, which was very close by; 
and when we declined with thanks, he urged us to take our meals 
there. We assured him that we still had plenty to eat, but he made 
us promise to come over for supper. 

I was on the point of asking him if he could lend us some fish- 
hooks to while away the time with, when he remarked: 

“I’ve got to go grubbin’ myself. Got half a dozen big live-oak 
thickets up yonder above the field to dig out, and this wet weather 
is the best time to do it. Want to put in several acres of new ground 
by spring. I’ve been tryin’ to hire help. I’ve set three or four men 
to work, but they don’t stick more than a day or two. Grubbin’ is 
the hardest work in the world, I guess; and rootin’ up live-oaks is 
the hardest kind of grubbin’.” 

This interested me. Idleness was something ^ was little accustom- 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


49 


ed to. And, incited by my empty pockets, I was especially eager to 
earn some money. 

“Here’s a boy that won’t shy off from live-oaks,” I told him. “I’ve 
been clearing ground, off and on, for about a year, and I’m up to 
^ What will you pay me to grub for you while we wait?” 

All depends on what you can do. If you can clear as much land 
as I can. I’ll give you a dollar a day and board. Or if you’d like to 
grub by the job. I’ll give you so much for a thicket, accordin’ to its 
size.” 

“Frank, you can look after our camp, can’t you? I left home 
without a cent; and I didn’t have any money there to speak of. I’d 
like to earn a little while we’re water-bound here.” 

“Wouldn’t mind turning an honest dollar myself,” replied Frank. ’ 
“I’ll go up with you.” 

After unsaddling our horses, and lariating them out on the grass, 
we hung all our things on live-oak limbs, out of reach of the hogs 
running about. Then we went out to the house, where Anderson 
armed us with a mattock apiece. 

The land to be cleared was a prairie valley, spotted over with big 
live-oak thickets. 

“I’ll give five dollars to have that one grubbed out,” the settler 
remarked, on coming to the first thicket. 

“Show us something smaller,” I said. “Put us on one that we can 
clean out by noon tomorrow.” 

“Why not pitch into this, Travis?” spoke up Frank. “It won’t 
take us a great while to finish it.” 

“But our cattle — what can we do with them while we’re working?” 

“You can cross over in the mornin’ and get ’em, and keep ’em in 
my pen,” suggested Anderson. “I ain’t got any pasture fenced, but 
there’s plenty of cottonseed and green corn you’re welcome to feed 
’em,” 

“That’s good enough!” I assured him. “Now to work!” 

We were soon swinging our mattocks; and slowly, very slowly, 
the live-oak bushes went down before them. The hail-storm, though 
mjleS , from here, had cooled the air, but our faces were soon wet 
and dripping. All the rest of the day we stuck to our hard task. 

By noon the river had risen twenty-five or thirty feet. It was 
flooding all the bottom-land on the other side, and the lower part 
of the valley we .were at work in. But not long afterwards it began 
to run down, dropping more slowly, however, than it had come up. 
Just at nightfall, when Frank and I walked down to the road to 
examine it, there seemed good reason to believe that it would be 
fordable by morning. But a black cloud was piled up in the north- 
west, and all night long the electric fires flashed and flamed in it. 
And when morning dawned we were not greatly surprised to And 
the water higher than on the night before. And it kept crawling ap. 

So Frank and I went on with our grubbing. We took our meals 
at Anderson’s, and worked early and late and hard. By the second 
night we had finished our thicket; and very promptly we received 
our money. 

“Now guess I won’t have to beg stamps and postal-cards when I 
want to write home,” I remarked, as I pocketed my two dollars and 
a half, and felt much better for having it. 

The weather was fine here, but up the river rain kept falling 
daily, and one flood followed close on another’s heels. One night, I 
am pretty sure, the water fell low enough for deep fording. But 
by morning it was booming again. 

Once we went down to the point opposite Edwards’ house, and 
calling him to the river by signals, we inquired about our cattle. He 


50 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


shouted back that they were still in the pasture with an abundance 
of water and grass, and that they could stay there a month or two 
longer, if necessary. Then we returned to our work. 

Having finished our first thicket, we spent half a day fishing, then 
started in on another and larger thicket. This was a longer job, 
but it paid us a dollar apiece more than the first one. 

During this time we had written letters home, and sent them to 
the nearest post office by one of Anderson’s neighbors. In them we 
explained that we had overtaken our cattle and had them safely 
fenced in; and that we expected to start home just as soon as the 
high water would let us cross over and get them. 

After finishing our second thicket we tried fishing again, then came 
back and took a contract to grub up a third thicket. We had now 
been here a whole week, and still the river was too deep to ford. 
But as we were making fair wages, and had no anxiety about our 
cattle, that did not worry us greatly. 

One night, however, we went to the house to find some news await- 
ing us. 

Anderson’s little boy, who had been down the river fishing, came 
running home to tell his father that Edwards had shouted something 
across to him. All that the little fellow could understand was the 
word ‘‘cattle.” 

“Boys, that must be something about your big steer and the two 
yearlings,” Anderson said, turning to us. 

We both agreed with him; and soon we were all hurrying down 
to see if we could get in communication with Edwards. For some 
reason a strange misgiving kept tugging at my heart. Edwards was 
still on the river-bank, and we quickly learned what he had to tell 
us. 

Our cattle, he shouted across, were out of the pasture and gone. 
He tried to explain how they came to escape, but that we failed to 
understand. However, it made little difference. 

“How long have they been gone?” I yelled. 

“Since night before last,” came back, rather faintly. 

I was thoroughly angry at Lep. “The tricky old scoundrel! Can 
we never get hold of him?” I exclaimed hotly. 

“He seems pretty hard to put your fingers on,” observed Frank, 
rather glumly for him. 

“That settles it!” I declared, as the three of us turned and walked 
back through the gathering dusk toward Anderson’s. “No more 
hanging around here for me! I’ve got to get across this river first 
thing tomorrow morning.” 

“But how can we cross, Travis?” protested Frank. “The river is 
as high as ever, and as dangerous as ever. I don’t see anything to 
do but cultivate patience and wait.” 

“Wait!” I exclaimed, impatiently. “Frank, if that old longhorn 
had your hopes of getting an education tied to his tail, as he has 
mine, and a lot of other things with it, the very word wait would 
drive you frantic. No,, we’ve waited too .long already. I’ve got to 
cross somehow, and strike out on that old rascal’s trail, if I have to 
swim over and then foot it. Once let him get another long start of 
me, and I might as well sing, ‘Good-bye, Lep!’” 


CHAPTER X. 


RAFTING ON THE COWHOUSE. 


O N our way down to interview Edwards we had noticed a cov- 
ered wagon approaching the river from the north; and on 
our way back to Anderson’^ we saw that the wagon had 
camped a hundred yards or so from the bank. Near it an old couple, 
man and wife, were eating their supper by a little camp-fire. Ev- 
idently they were waiting for the river to run down. 

The night that followed was an anxious one for me. Before fall- 
ing asleep Frank and I discussed every plan we could think of, prac- 
ticable and impracticable, for reaching the south bank. There were 
no ferry-boats, either above or below. And, as it happened, an 
unexpected rise, coming when the river was low the spring before, 
had carried off all the skiffs along here. The nearest one left was 
six miles above. 

“The* simplest way to cross is to swim,” Frank observed, as we 
lay on our blankets, gazing up at the starlit sky. 

“If Dick was ever in swimming water I don’t know when it was, 
Frank. He might go it all right, or he might not. Father was a 
cowboy when he was a young fellow, only a little older than we 
are. He was part of an outfit that tried to take twenty-five hun- 
dred longhorn steers from Texas to California. They never saw 
California, but they marched thousands of miles, and swam livers by 
the dozen. He says there’s a world of difference in horses. All of 
them can swim, of course; but some swim well naturally, and some 
don’t, especially with anybody on their backs. And the only way 
you can find out about a horse is to try him.” 

“Well, the Cowhouse is not just the kind of a stream one likes to 
experiment in,” answered Frank. 

“It’s anything else. And a horse is an excitable animal. They 
sometimes drown themselves. I believe Dick could s\yim all right. 
He’s a sensible little fellow. But he’s too light to hold me up in the 
water. If I could swim by his side, or hang to his tail, it wouldn’t 
be so bad. But to sit up in the saddle — I wouldn’t dare to risk it.” 

“And even if you did swim by him or tow behind him, how could 
you guide him?” 

“There’s the rub, Frank. I couldn’t guide him; at least not in 
such a stream as this.” 

“No, I guess not. What Bob would do in the water I don’t know. 
He’s bigger than your pony; but then I’m a good deal heavier than 
you are. It would make me feel shaky to try to swim the Cowhouse 
on him. I’m only a passable swimmer myself. In fact, I wouldn’t 
dare risk it.” 

“A boat’s what we need, and a boat we’ve got to have, Frank. 
Then we can pull across, and let our horses swim after us.” 

“Yes, a boat’s the thing,” agreed Frank. “And the wisest course 
for us is to strike out up the river tomorrow morning, and keep on 
the move till we find that one Anderson told us about, or some other.” 

With this understanding we fell asleep. We were up before day- 
light next morning, and went down to examine the water. But the 
stream was still far too deep to ford. 


52 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


We told Anderson what we had decided to do, and he approved of 
it as being safer than attempting to swim the river on horse-back. 

He was going to town, and we wrote two hasty letters home, and 
sent them by him to mail. In them we explained that our cattle had 
escaped and were gone again, and that we were about to follow. 

Just as the sun was rising we said good-bye to the Anderson fam- 
ily and rode up the river. Anderson had paid us *all the money due 
for grubbing and his wife had stowed away a new supply of pro- 
visions in one end of Frank’s saddle-bags. Our horses were well 
rested by this time, and we took up the chase again very hopefully. 

But a mile up the river we happened upon something that caused 
us to change our plans. 

In a very low place in the valley — a sort of pocket fyom the river 
— back-water was standing. When the river was high many logs 
and rails had been thrust out into this pocket by the stream. And 
here they remained, floating in the shallow water. 

As we were riding around this place, Frank suddenly reined up. 

“Travis, let’s not go a step further. It’s six miles up to that 
boat and six miles back — a twelve-mile trip. The boat’s on the oth- 
er side, and the owner lives a quarter of a mile away, Anderson said. 
If we don’t happen to And him down at the river, and the chances 
are we sha’n’t, we’ll have to keep riding till we happen onto a boat 
on this side. And that may be six miles further — or sixteen — or 
sixty. And even after that we’d have to double all the way back 
here to strike the trail. So let’s hop oif right here and — ” 

“And do what, Frank?” 

“Make a raft. Plenty of logs here for a good one. A raft is bet- 
ter than a boat, too, for a swift stream like this. It can’t upset, and 
it can’t sink — unless you load it to death.” 

“But I wouldn’t know how to handle it.” 

“Risk me to show you that. One of my uncles lives near the Osage 
river in Missouri. He and his hoys used to make rafts of sawlogs in 
a big creek. When the creek got up they’d work the raft out into 
the Osage, and then several miles down that to a sawmill. I helped 
take three or four down while I was there on visits. Finest fun in 
the world, too. We can manage a raft all right. Of course we can!” 

He was so enthusiastic over his new plan that I quickly caught 
some of his enthusiasm. 

“If you’ll ride back to Anderson’s and borrow an ax and an auger. 
I’ll pick out the best logs and get them together,” he proposed. 

I readily consented; and when I returned with the tools, Frank 
had the logs in position and ready for the cross-pieces. 

“At first I planned to make a little raft,” he explained. “But 
these logs are nearly all long, and it would take a lot of time to 
chop them in two. So I’ve decided that we’ll use them full length. 
The thing will be a little clumsier to manage, but it’ll be safer. And 
our ponies can swim behind a big raft just as well as behind a little 
one.” 

With boots and socks off, and his trousers rolled as high as pos- 
sible, he was down in the shallow water, putting the logs in position. 

I now felled a small tree close by, and between us we split it in 
half. These timbers we laid across the logs, one at each end, and 
flat side down, and bored holes and pegged them there. 

“With as big a raft as this, what’s the use making our horses 
swim?” I wanted to know. 

“Hadn’t thought of that. Guess we might as well ferry them 
across and save them the exertion of swimming. Why yes, we can 
do that. Of course we can; and we will.” 

Now we filled in the hollows between the logs with rails and sticks, 
so that Bob and Dick could walk over them better. 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


53 


In a clump of woods on the river-bank we cut two slender poles, 
each about fifteen feet long. 

‘‘All ready for business — for navigation!” cried my friend, as we 
laid the poles on the raft. 

While Frank attended to various small matters I carried the tools 
back to Anderson’s. When I returned he had the raft against the 
bank, at a suitable place, and called on me to lead the horses aboard. 

Dick smelt the logs and snorted several times, but gave no serious 
trouble. Frank’s horse was more stubborn, and a quarter of an 
hour’s coaxing was necessary before he would take the venture. But 
when once on, both stood in their tracks in the center of the raft, 
too frightened to move an inch. Vic was scampering about over the 
logs. 

Frank now set his pole against the bank and pushed off, and we 
had started on our voyage. As we poled the raft through the still 
backwater, nearer and nearer to the swift, angry, angrily muttering 
river, it must be confessed that I grew not a little nervous. And 
when we had pushed out into the stream, and the current had seized 
the heavy raft and was running away with it, as a mud-bottom cat 
runs away with a fisherman’s cork, I was badly frightened. 

Frank, however, showed no signs of alarm, and profiting by his 
example, I soon shook off most of my fears. 

“Yonder’s the landing point I’d picked out,” he said, pointing down 
the river to a sloping place in the south bank. “I don’t know wheth- 
er we can stop there or not. Let’s try though.” 

We thrust down our poles full length, but without touching bot- 
tom. 

On sped the runaway raft, at dizzying speed, and the place where 
we had hoped to land was soon left behind. Now even Frank ap- 
peared a little dismayed. 

“Don’t just like the looks of things,” he admitted. “No telling 
how far we may drift before we find another landing-point on that 
side. Wish my pole had grown a few feet longer. But let's keep 
feeling for bottom.” 

Again and again we stabbed the turbid stream with our poles, but 
nothing solid could we reach. The banks now stood up like walls 
on both sides; but even if we had seen ever so many landing-places, 
they would have availed us nothing. The raft was utterly beyond 
our control. We were riding a wild steed without bridle or halter. 

“Maybe the river will grow shallower farther down,” Frank re- 
marked, as we stood anxiously, poles in hand, watching the green 
banks hurry by us. 

“It ought to,” was my answer. “It’s at least thirty yards wider 
at the ford; and I doubt if it’s quite as swift. And now that we’ve 
started, we might as well run down to the road. It won’t take more 
than a jiffy to get there, if we don’t hit a snag or something.” 

“That’s right. We’re whooping things up. Nothing slow about 
this old creek. So we’ll wait for the ford. Have to, whether we 
want to or not. But what if the water’s too deep for our poles down 
there?” 

“We’ll have to risk that.” 

“Yes, no help for it now. We can’t do anything worse than drift 
on into the Brazos, or into the Gulf of Mexico.” He laughed, rather 
nervously. 

Every now and then, as the torrent hurried us along, we passed a 
place where the current, bobbing up and down, rocked the raft as 
it had been a bundle of sticks. Our horses, standing with outspread 
feet, and trembling, snorted loudly, and Vic set up an excited bark- 
ing. Once or twice the raft swung around with us. 


54 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


Soon we had navigated a mile of the stream on our clumsy craft; 
and rounding a bend, we saw the roof of Anderson’s house overtop- 
ping another bend, and presently we could see where the road came 
down. And I noticed that the old traveler and his wife were stand- 
ing at the water’s edge, observing us. 

Now the river was beginning to widen, and we m.ade ready to try 
our poles again. The raft was rushing down the stream at a gallop ^ 
so to speak; and when I rashly thrust my pole into the water in 
front of it, the pole struck a rocky bottom and was jerked out of 
my hands so violently that I came within an inch of diving head first 
into the river after it. The raft swept over the pole, but I ran 
round the horses to the upper end and caught it as it bobbed up. 

“Come over to this side!” Frank called to me. 

Hastily I complied. Thrusting our poles down at the north edge 
we pushed the raft toward the south bank, and kept pushing it 
further and further and further, till it was out of the swiftest cur- 
rent. After that we had no serious difficulty in getting it to land, 
at the point where the road led out. 

We had fastened a rope to one log; and while Frank leaped ashore 
and held the raft against the sloping bank, I led the horses off. They 
went with a jump, well pleased to find themselves on firm land again. 

“What shall we do with this, old concern, Travis? Let it float 
away?” 

“No. Let’s find a grape-vine and tie it to a tree. Somebody else 
may need it.” 

Leaving me to hold the raft, Frank struck off through the woods 
in search of a vine. While he was gone, I noticed the old man and 
his wife gazing toward "the raft wistfully. Finally the man called 
out: 

“What’ll you take to ferry us across on that?” 

“Too risky!” I shouted back. “We wouldn’t dare try to bring a 
wagon and team over.” 

“The horses could swim.” 

I did not answer, and the man soon called again: 

“I’ll give you two dollars to raft my wagon across.” 

“Don’t think we’d better try it.” 

The couple talked together, and then the man shouted: 

“Don’t know but what I might make it three.” 

I shook my head. “Rather not undertake it,” I shouted back. I 
had eight round dollars in my pocket just now, and was more than 
anxious to get started on the trail of those cattle. 

There was another consultation between the couple on the north 
bank, and the outcome of it was another offer: 

“What do you say to four dollars?” 

Again I shook my head, a little less decidedly this time. Finally 
the man asked: 

“Would you do it for five?” 

In my eyes this was a considerable sum, and I was very loath to 
reject it. “Wait till my partner comes back,” I shouted, “and I’ll 
see what he says.” 

“What’s that you’ll see about?” Frank called out just then, as he 
came hurrying through the woods, trailing a long vine. 

“The folks camped over yonder are very anxious to cross,” I ex- 
plained. “The man says he’ll give us five dollars to come over and 
get his wagon. Says his horses can swim. What do you think?” 

“Five dollars! That’s big money for a job like that. They must 
be hard up to cross. A whole lot easier than grubbing up live-oaks. 
Why not rake it in?” 

“Would the raft float a wagon?” 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


55 


“If the wagon’s not too heavy.” Then lifting his voice: “How 
much load do you carry?” 

“No load to speak of. Just the empty wagon.” 

“Pm in for trying it,” Frank now said. “Good big job to get this 
old concern over there and back — bigger than I thought at first; 
bu^t we’rd the boys that can do it. We’ll have to pull up stream 
about a quarter of a mile, or we can’t land at the road yonder. If 
you want to try it hop aboard, and keep the raft away from the 
bank. I’ll do the pulling.” * 

After hitching our horses I jumped out upon the raft, followed by 
Vic. Frank seized the rope, threw it over his shoulder, and started 
up stream, along the edge of the bank. With my pole I kept the 
raft from rubbing the bank; and I also aided in pushing the raft 
along. 

The current offered but little resistance close to land, but our 
awkward craft moved slowly, and we spent a full half hour toiling 
up to a point where it seemed safe to launch but. Then Frank threw 
the rope aboard, and scrambled down the bank after it, and we 
pushed off. 

The stream was soon hurrying us toward the Gulf of Mexico, but 
we plied our poles vigorously, pushing the raft across, and doing 
what we could to retard its downward progress. And we landed at 
the right place. 

“The reason we’re so anxious to cross,” the traveler told us,' “is 
that the river’s crawlin’ up. It ain’t climbin’ so very fast, but it’s 
purty tryin’ to wait for a stream to run down that’s on the rise. 
And we’re powerful anxious to get on our way.” 

Now we secured the raft to bushes, against the end of the broken 
road. Then the three of us went up and brought the wagon down 
the steep bank by hand, its hind wheels locked fast. It was rolled 
to the center of the raft, leaving passage-room all around it where 
we could use our poles. 

The old man remained on the raft, to keep it clear, while Frank 
and I went up, and walking along the edge of the high bank, drag- 
ged the raft up stream. The woman followed us, leading their two 
horses. 

Believing that the raft would be harder to manage when loaded 
than it had been when light we towed it nearly up to Anderson’s 
house. Anderson had gone to town, but his wife and children came 
out to watch us. At a place where a steep hog-path climbed the 
bank, we brought the horses down. Mrs. Anderson came to the wa- 
ter’s edge with the traveler’s wife. The latter was evidently very 
nervous. 

“I feel mighty juberous about settin’ foot on that thing,” she said, 
tremulously. “If we wasn’t so powerful anxious to get along, I 
wouldn’t think of reskin’ it. We’ve been visitin’ our married son, 
un on the Leon river. And while we was there we got word that 
our daughter back at home had been took bad sick. If it wasn’t for 
that, I wouldn’t trust myself on this thing — not for love or money 
I wouldn’t! I hope we’ll come out all right, but I don’t know — I 
don’t know.” 

She spoke in a strained, high-pitched voice, which expressed her 
agitation even better than her words. Mrs. Anderson tried to reas- 
sure her, and so did Frank. 

“We made one voyage of a mile and a half on this raft,” he said, 
“and we landed all right side up. Nothing much to be afraid of, I 
guess.” 

Now we got ready to push off. The woman was by the wagon, 
and her husband near the raft’s edge, holding the ropes that were 


56 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


on his horses’ necks. Frank and I, armed with our poles, stood at 
the corners. As the raft moved slowly out, the horses seemed very 
reluctant to follow it. And not till Anderson’s little boy had pelted 
them with gravel did they enter the water. But once in they swam 
easily enough. 

By the time we had reached mid-river, where the current ran like 
a mill-race, both the man and his wife were plainly very much 
frightened. But neither of them uttered a word; and Frank and 
I were too busy with our poles tB give them more than an occasional 
glance. In one place the bobbing current rocked the raft threaten- 
ingly. 

Having a -half-mile to do our work in, we found no great trouble 
in eifecting a landing at the road. As the raft touched solid ground, 
I heard the woman behind me breathe a sigh of relief. 

The horses were now led, steaming, out of the river. After being 
harnessed they were put to the wagon, and the wagon was pulled up 
the bank. While I held the raft, Frank followed the wagon up to 
level ground to get his grape-vine. He soon returned, with the vine 
in one hand and a five-dollar bill in the other. 

“Here, Travis, take this and give me two and a half in change.” 

“What do you want with change?” 

“Why, I thought I’d hand my half back. You heard what the 
woman said about their sick daughter at home. And they seem to 
be rather poor, too. Of course we’re entitled to the five dollars if 
we want it. We’ve earned it fairly, according to agreement. But 
somehow I don’t want my share.” 

“Then never mind about the change. Just hand it all back, and 
call the matter square.” 

Both the man and his wife declared they could not accept the 
money; but Frank tossed it, laughingly, into the woman’s lap as she 
sat in the wagon, and then he hurried away. 

“We’re a thousand times obliged to you, both of you,” the man 
leaned out to say. 

Just as he was driving off, another wagon appeared on the north 
bank. This one was also covered, or partly covered; and two men 
sat on the spring-seat in front, but out from under the canvas. 

After coming down to the water’s edge to look at the river, one 
of them shouted across: 

“What’s that you’ve got there?” And on being informed he ad- 
ded: “Can you ferry us across on it?” 

“We don’t care to try,” I called back. 

“How did that other wagon get over?” 

“We rafted it over.” 

“Then why can’t you come over again for us?” 

“We’re not running a ferry. And we’ve lost more time now than 
we can afford to lose.” 

The man offered us a dollar to come and get them, and kept in- 
creasing it till the bid reached twenty dollars. And if we had held off 
long enough he might have offered us a hundred. 

Frank had been willing to accept a much smaller sum, but I was 
obstinate. It was now well on in the day, and I felt very impatient 
to get started after our cattle. Though eager enough to earn mon- 
ey, I reflected that if I lost an ox worth thirty or forty dollars, 1 
should be greatly the loser in the end. ’ 

But when the offer was increased to twenty dollars— ten apiece 

it proved too tempting, and I could hold out no longer. 

Again we dragged our cumbersome craft far up stream; and again 
we launched out into the turbid torrent, upon the most exciting 
river-voyage I have ever made. 


CHAPTER XL 


THAT MYSTERIOUS WAGON. 

B y the time we had effected a landing on the north bank the two 
men with the wagon were boiling over with impatience. One 
of them was pacing up and down like a chained bear. Scarcely 
had our raft butted the shore when he began to hurry us. He was 
a fellow of rather striking appearance, with a heavy black mustache, 
which drooped over the corners of his mouth. 

“What are you in such a fidge about?’’ demanded Frank, half re- 
sentfully, after being several times urged to make haste. 

“Why, we’ve got a mighty sick man in the wagon up there, and 
we want to rush ’im to a doctor just as quick as we can.” 

“Oh, a sick man, eh? That’s a different thing. Why didn’t you 
say so at first? Of course we’ll hurry,” answered Frank, all his 
resentment gone instantly. 

“How can we get our wagon onto your old log-pile?” asked the 
man with the black mustache. 

“You’d better take your horses loose, and we’ll run the wagon 
down by hand,” I spoke up. “That’s the way we did the other wagon.” 
“And then we’ll put the team on, eh?” 

“Your horses will have to swim,” Frank informed him. 

“They’re mighty hot to be put into the water. We’ve been trav- 
elin’ like a prairie fire for the last hour or two. Won’t this old con- 
traption float our whole outfit? It’s big enough.” 

“We could make a second trip for the horses; or raft them over 
first and then come back for the wagon,” I suggested. 

“No, that won’t do — won’t do* at all. Take too long,” the man de- 
clared, irritably. 

“We might roll the wagon on,” said Frank, and then try leading 
the horses on, one at a time. If the raft will float them, all right. 
But if it won’t float, they’ll either have to swim or we shall have 
to make a second trip.” 

The traveler agreed to this; and we all went up and brought the 
wagon down and rolled it out upon the raft. The sheet, I noticed, 
covered only the part of the wagon behind the spring-seat. But it 
was so closed at both ends that nowhere could we catch even a 
glimpse of the sick man. I wondered why it was necessary to seal 
him up so hermetically. 

When the horses were brought on board their weight, added to 
the wagon weight and ours, settled the raft pretty deep in the wa- 
ter. Not so deep, though, but that we thought it safe to make the 
voyage over with the whole load. 

The two men remained on the raft, one to hold the horses and one 
to use a pole. Frank and I walked along the edge of the cliff-like 
bank above, tugging at the rope. And a hard, hot pull we had of 
it. For the heavily loaded, deep-sunk raft fought mightily against the 
current. By the time we had toiled two hundred yards up stream, 
in the broiling sun, our faces were dripping. And when the man 
with the black mustache, still impatient, urged us to come aboard 
and push off, we gladly took advantage of the first sloping place to 
do so. 


58 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


Frank and I were now using the poles, and the men were stand- 
ing, one on either side of the wagon, and each holding a horse. Be- 
fore we had moved far out into the river Frank, whose curiosity 
must have been aroused, inquired as he passed the black-mustached 
man: 

“What ails your sick friend?’’ 

“Oh, nothin’ but smallpox, I guess.” 

I had happened to overhear both the question and the answer; and 
so startled was I that I dropped my pole, narrowly catching it again. 
Frank spun around as if he had been shot at, and I saw him turn 
pale. 

As for myself, for a few moments I came dangerously near to 
plunging into the river and swimming for land. I had never been 
much closer than a hundred miles to smallpox. But to me the word 
was synonymous with a slow and awful death. I had heard of one 
case where all of a man’s relatives had fled from him in terror, 
leaving him to die alone of the dread disease. 

“Why didn’t you tell us that sooner?” demanded Frank, in a voice 
husky with anger. 

“Because you didn’t ask me,” was the innocent reply. 

Frank came over to me. “What can we do?” he said, in low, ag- 
itated tones. We were both half frightened out of our senses; for 
neither of us had ever been vaccinated. 

But I could think of nothing. Indeed, my vivid imagination was 
already conjuring up pictures of us two dying alone somewhere of 
the loathsome pestilence. And the horror of the fate awaiting us 
almost benumbed my brain. We had forgotten the raft and forgot- 
ten where we were, and stood facing each other, with our poles in 
our hands. One fact stared at us in all its ghastliness: we were 
face to face with Death, as we believed, and he had marked us for 
his own. 

“What are you boys doin’? Where you lettin’ us drift to? If 
you’ll git us across right quick, ain’t much danger of you ketchin’ it.” 

“Yes, let’s push across the first minute we can, Frank!” I exclaim- 
ed, arousing myself from my dazed condition. Like a drowning per- 
son, I had clutched at the straw of hope in the man’s words. “And 
just look where we are!” I cried out. 

While we had stood idle, the current had been industriously 
sweeping us down stream. Already we saw ourselves opposite the 
point where we should have touched land; and the raft was not yet 
half way across. 

Both Frank and I took in all this at a glance. And both now fell 
to poling as hard as we could. The very thought of keeping com- 
pany for any considerable time with that death-infected wagon was 
sufficient to fill us with terror. We worked frantically — so franti- 
cally that when I dropped my pole into a deep place in the river-bed, 
I narrowly saved myself from tumbling overboard. 

Hard as we poled and pushed, we missed all the sloping bank be- 
low the road. Below this was an inlet forty or fifty yards wide, 
where backwater now reached out into the woods. And immediate- 
ly below this inlet began a line of low cliffs on that side. The raft 
once opposite those cliffs, landing would be next thing to impossible 
till we drifted no telling how far; perhaps a mile or two. 

With all our frantic haste we fought to reach the inlet. For a few 
minutes it seemed that we must be carried by it. But the outer cur- 
rent was weaker, and once in that we could ' hold the . raft. We 
quickly decided to pole out into the inlet and seek for a landing- 
place at its far end. , ^ 

Just as we were approaching the trees — those standing knee-deep 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


59 


in the backwater — I heard the rapid beating of hoofs on the north 
bank, up at the road. Glancing in that direction, I saw three horse- 
men galloping down the river-bank. Another glance, a little later, 
showed them reining up opposite us, and drawing their guns. This, 
though a strange proceeding, scarcely attracted my attention at the 
time. I was too eager to land the raft and put distance between me 
and that wagon. 

“Halt! Halt there!” 

These words rang out in stentorian tones across the water. I 
glanced up, and so did Frank, but not for a moment did we pause in 
our work. To reach land was the only thing in the world just now. 

“Halt there, I say!” 

Presently a Winchester roared out. The report, tossed back by 
the hills, went echoing through the woods, ripping and roaring, and 
seeming to rend the very forest. And a bullet came singing over 
our heads — singing a tune of death. Other reports followed in quick 
succession, and other bullets ping-winged over us, clipping off 
leaves and twigs among tree-tops. 

Ordinarily I should have been terrified at this strange proceeding; 
now I little more than noticed it. I wondered vaguely what it all 
meant, but neither Frank nor I stopped poling for a moment. There 
was something in that wagon more frightful to us than bullets. 

Our two men were behind the wagon, and one of them called out: 

“Push into the woods just as quick as you can, boys!” 

The admonition was wholly unnecessary. Guiding the raft be- 
tween trees, we soon had it deep in the flooded forest, and behind 
some land, where the horsemen were out of sight. Then, and not 
till then, did their bullets leave us in peace. 

“Mighty close shave for us,” I overheard one of the men remark, 
in a relieved tone. And then he came round and explained: 

“Just some fellers after us for bringin’ a smallpox patient through 
the country.” 

“Pity they didn’t catch you,” I answered, wrathfully. 

The water kept growing shallower, and within a few yards of 
dry land the raft ran fast aground. 

“Come on, Travis!” cried Frank, as he threw down his pole, step- 
ped off into the water, and made for land. I followed, and we had 
soon waded ashore, climbed a sloping bank, and started off through 
the woods toward our horses. 

“Hold on there, boys! What are you in such a rush about ? Can’t 
you give us a lift with the wagon?” 

We dropped down from a run to a walk, but kept on. 

“We’d better ride full-tilt for the nearest doctor,” Frank was 
saying, “and try to get vaccinated. 

“But isn’t it too late now?” 

“No. They claim it will do good, even after you’ve been exposed 
to smallpox. If you have the disease at all, it will prove very mild.” 

“Then let’s start quick and ride hard. We shall never see our 
cattle again, I suppose.” 

“Who cares for cattle?” exclaimed Frank. “I wouldn’t have the 
smallpo::^ for all the cattle in Texas.” 

“Hold up, boys!” the black-mustached man now called out. “Say, 
boys, I was just jokin’ about that. No smallpox here.” 

At this we stopped suddenly, in amazement. “Queer kind of a 
joke,” growled Frank. 

“You mustn’t be takin’ to your heels, boys. I didn’t intend to 
scare you to death. Our friend in the wagon has got somethin’ 
ailin’ of ’im, and we’re takin’ ’im to the doctor for it. But I doubt 
if it’s smallpox.” 


60 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


“Smallpox!’’ exclaimed the other man, scornfully. “He ain’t got 
no more smallpox than I have.” ' 

Ordinarily we should have been angry at the deception practiced 
upon us. But so wonderful was our relief at this latest develop- 
ment that we forgot everything else. Now, for me at least, the 
world seemed suddenly to turn right side up again. 

“Why didn’t you tell us that before?” demanded Frank. Then 
he added, in a lower tone, to me: “We were about to forget our 
money. Let’s go back for it. How much shall we charge them?” 

“When they first told us they had a sick man in the wagon, I felt 
that we ought to let them off with four or five dollars, or even less. 
But after that smart joke, I vote to charge them full price.” 

“So do I. They shall pay the last cent.” 

We went back, and wading into the water, aided in rolling the 
wagon off the raft out upon dry ground. Then we helped put the 
horses to it. The men were evidently in a great hurry to be gone ; 
but so nervous were they both that in their frantic haste they seem- 
ed to get very little done. But now they leaped up into the spring- 
seat, ready to start. 

“Our money, if you please,” said Frank, a little gruffly perhaps. 

“Your what!” exclaimed the man with the black mustache, in 
well feigned surprise. 

“Our money,” I said. “The twenty dollars you owe us for rafting 
you across the river.” 

“Oh, don’t mention it, boys — don’t mention it!” replied the man, 
with a wave of his hand, as if waving aside our thanks for some fa- 
vor he had done us. And up the bank went the wagon, and away 
it trotted swiftly, through the woods toward the road. 

For a full minute, as it seemed, we stood staring after it. 

“Well, for downright, bare-faced, devilish rascality, that beats 
anything I ever ran up against!” exploded Frank, wrathfully, dis- 
gustedly. 

I was still past speaking. “Come on!” I finally -burst out. “Let’s 
get to our horses and follow the scoundrels!” 

Frank started with me, but stopped again, rather suddenly. 

“It won’t do any good, Travis. If they don’t want to pay us, I 
don’t know of any way to squeeze it out of them now. If we’d been 
wise, we’d have collected in advance. We’ll know better the next 
time. They’re not the right sort, those fellows. There’s a big, 
black streak in them somewhere. Come to think of it, there’s some- 
thing suspicious about this whole business. If they didn’t have 
smallpox in that wagon, what were those fellows shooting at them 
for?” 

“The chances are they did have smallpox, after all, Frank. They 
lied to us one way or the other, and they’re just as likely to have 
lied last as first. Let’s go back. Maybe those fellows are still over 
there.” 

We hurried through the woods till we came to the river, at the 
place where we had left our horses. The three men had dismounted 
on the far bank, evidently at a loss for some means of getting across. 
Scarcely had we shown ourselves when one of them, a little man 
with a big voice — the same voice we had heard before — shouted to us : 

“Is there any kind of a ferry on this river?” 

“Who are you?” I shouted back. 

“I’m the sheriff of Palo Pinto county.” 

“And what do you want?” 

“We’re after that wagon that just crossed.” 

“What for?” 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


61 


“There’s a notorious desperado in it. We’ve been on his trail for 
days.” 

“Has he got smallpox?” 

“Got what?” 

“Small — pox!” I yelled, spreading the syllables far apart for dis- 
tinctness. 

“No. But he’ll get something worse if we capture him.” 

“Are you sure he hasn’t got it?” 

“Of course I am! The devil never catches smallpox.” 

I was wonderfully relieved. The fellows with the wagon invented 
the whole story. 

“We can swim the river if we have to,” the sheriif was saying. 
“But our horses are pretty hot and tired, and we’d rather not put 
them into the cold water if there’s any way to ferry.” 

Frank and I consulted. “We brought those desperadoes across; 
now let’s give the officers a lift,” I proposed. 

“That we will! Of course we will! And be glad of the chance 
to!” exclaimed my friend heartily. 

Both of us were feeling pretty sore over that lost twenty dollars; 
and ten times sorer over the high-handed way we had been robbed 
of it, and over the horrible fright we had received. 

“Yes, we can raft you across,” I shouted. “It will take some time, 
though.” 

“All right! Be just as quick as you can, boys. Those scoundrels 
are gaining on us every minute.” 


CHAPTER XII. 


THE MILL IN THE MOUNTAINS. 

W E now ran for our raft and after poling it out of the back- 
water inlet we dragged and poled it up the south bank. 
But, prompted by the necessity for hurrying, we stopped 
considerably short of the point from which we had launched out on 
our previous voyages across the river. 

This was a mistake, as we speedily learned. For scarcely had we 
got half-way across when it became plain to all of us that the raft 
must miss the intended landing place by at least a hundred yards. 
And below the road there was nothing but upright bank. 

In this emergency the sheriff, hastily knotting two of their lar- 
iats together, coiled them and hurled the end at us. Frank caught 
it dexterously and then both of us, throwing down our poles, grasped 
the rope and braced our feet. Now the three men on the bank pulled 
us to land, in defiance of the current. 

The sheriff’s name, we were informed, was McCracken, and the 
two men with him were his deputies. They were armed to the teeth, 
every one. Though small of stature Sheriff McCracken was big in 
courage as well as in voice. And we afterwards learned that he had 
some reputation as a catcher of outlaws. Indeed, his name was a 
terror to evil-doers. With the tenacity of a blood-hound he had been 
known to trail a criminal from one end of the wide state to the other. 

For a few days the three men had been hot on the trail of a no- 
torious desperado, Bill Edsell by name. Both Frank and I had heard 
and read much of this fellow. He was guilty of many crimes. More 
than one officer of the law had gone down before him; and there 
was a price on his head, to be paid for capturing him dead or alive. 

When hard pressed by his pursuers the desperado had suddenly 
disappeared as if the earth had opened and swallowed him up. But 
just as they were about to abandon the chase as hopeless the officers 
had learned, by the merest chance, that some of Edsell’s friends had 
concealed him in a covered wagon and were trying to get out of the 
country with him. 

McCracken’s party informed us that all the shots had been fired 
over our heads. But the sheriff declared that if Frank and I had 
not been on the raft, and in the most exposed condition, he would 
have stopped the raft or riddled that wagon with bullets. 

‘T wonder what made those fellows lie to us about smallpox,” 
said Frank. 

“They may have done it to hurry you,” McCracken answered. 
“But I rather guess they wanted to make sure you didn’t get cur- 
ious and go to nosing around their wagon.” 

“Well, they succeeded beautifully,” I spoke up. “The wagon 
looked a little mysterious, and I might have been tempted to take a 
peep under the cover. But after smallpox was mentioned I wouldn’t 
have lifted that canvas for a gold mine.” 

When we had explained that it would again be necessary to tow 
the raft a few hundred yards up stream, the sheriff said: 

“We haven’t got a minute to spare. You boys stay on there, and 
we’ll do the pulling.” 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


63 


After fastening their lariats to the raft, they led their horses up 
the hill, then sprang into their saddle. Immediately Frank and I 
had all we could do with our poles, and the raft was plowing the 
water up stream with the speed of a steamboat. 

“This will be far enough,” Frank soon called out. 

The men now dismounted; and after we had loosed and they had 
coiled their lariats they led their horses down a steep path and out 
upon the raft. Promptly we pushed off, and a few minutes later 
the raft butted its head against the south bank at the road. The 
officers at once led their horses ashore and mounted. 

“Well, boys,” said the sheriff, “you’ve rafted us across nicely, and 
we’re many times obliged to you for it. There’s a reward out for 
that desperado, and if we capture him there’ll be at least ten dollars 
apiece coming to you for the information and help you’ve given us. 
And you shall have it as we pass back. But here’s something for 
your trouble till then.” He tossed us a five-dollar bill. 

“We don’t charge — ” Frank began. 

But the three were already galloping away, their spurs jangling, 
their bolstered Winchesters hammering their saddles, and their bol- 
stered six-shooters flopping against their sides. 

“Well, our hard half-day’s work panned out something, didn’t it?” 
remarked Frank, as he stooped and picked up the money. “They 
wouldn’t give us time to explain that we didn’t charge them anything, 
nor that we don’t live here. Hope we shall not be hanging around 
the Cowhouse when they come back by.” 

“That we won’t! We’ve lost time enough already. Let’s be mov- 
ing.” 

We untied our rope, but left the raft moored to a tree with Frank’s 
grape-vine. Some other traveler might have need of our makeshift 
ferry-boat. 

It was now past dinner-time, but without stopping to eat we 
mounted our horses and started for the Edwards house, where we 
hoped to strike the trail of our cattle. 

But before arriving there we met Edwards, coming on foot. He 
had been away from home, and had just returned. His wife had 
told him of the shots fired by McCracken’s party and he was curious 
to find out what they meant. Of course we had to relate the whole 
story of our morning’s experiences. 

Afterwards he insisted upon taking us home with him for dinner. 
While eating we learned how our cattle had happened to escape. 

One corner of the pasture reached down into the bottom-lands 
along the river, where the fence crossed a little branch, for water. 
After our cattle had been in the pasture a few days the river rose 
so high that the back-water, following up the branch, floated the 
rail-fence and let it tumble down. The water retreated during the 
night and before morning it was supposed Lep and his followers 
had passed out through the broken fence and gone. 

Edwards had not missed them till the afternoon of the following 
day. Then he rode a good many miles hunting for them, in different 
directions, but failed to even hear of them. 

“The minute they got out they probably struck a bee-line for 
southwest Texas,” I informed him. 

A short time later Frank and I were in pursuit. We took the road 
we believed Lep had followed and after riding several miles we 
succeeded in finding a settler who had seen the three animals pass. 
Encouraged by this news we pushed on faster. 

The farther we advanced the more broken the country became. 
Few people lived here, and those were well hid in the deep, narrow 
valleys. When night overtook us there was no house at hand, and 


64 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


we camped on the bank of a creek. By daylight next morning we 
were in the saddle again. 

During this day we had no end of trouble following the trail. 
The roads were so rocky that we could rarely distinguish a hoof- 
print. And the houses along the road were so few and far between 
that we seldom had an opportunity to make inquiries. More than 
once we strayed off on a false scent and had to retrace our steps. 

Rougher and rougher grew the country as we advanced till we 
found ourselves in cedar-brakes. Now there was little or nothing 
but mountains. Settlers were few, and roads even fewer; and there 
was not much danger of our going astray. 

Not long before night, while following our dim road as it wound 
through the odorous cedars and the foot of a mountain, we came 
upon a small boy. He was sitting flat in the road, picking up some 
spilt corn grain by grain, chicken-like. His horse was browsing 
near by. The boy was on his way to mill, he told us. His sack had 
come untied, allowing half of his corn to spill and the other half to 
drop to the ground. 

The accident had happened not long after noon and the patient 
little mountaineer had been picking up his scattered corn ever since. 
There were but a few grains left now, and I dismounted, tied the 
sack, and lifted it upon the horse for him. 

“That’s what’s been worryin’ me ’most to death,” he said. 

“What’s that?” asked Frank, as I picked up the freckle-faced, 
hardy-looking little knot of humanity and set him on top of his grist. 
“Why, how to git this here sack up ag’in. Ain’t many folks comes 
along here.” 

The boy rode with us. At length we came to a not very large but 
very clear mountain-stream. A hundred yards above the road, at 
a natural fall in the creek, stood a little water-mill. The mill-house, 
which was of cedar logs, was small; and the wheel was now in mo- 
tion, the water pouring over it noisily. 

The boy turned up toward the mill, and Frank and I went also. 
The miller, gray with the evidences of his calling, sat outside by the 
door, in the shade of the house, his chair tilted back against the 
rough wall. As we approached, he came out to carry in the boy’s 
grist. 

“Get down! Get down and come in!” he invited. And then he 
said to the boy: “Want it ground or swapped, Jimmy?” 

“I did want it ground, but it’s so late now — .” He glanced toward 
the sun, which was almost touching the mountain-tops. 

“Better swap it then,” said the miller. “Just as good anyhow.” 

He disappeared inside, but soon came out again, bringing the sack, 
well filled with meal now instead of corn. He put it upon the horse, 
behind its owner, and the boy rode back the way he had come. 

Thinking that this man might have been watching the road, we 
explained what we were looking for. 

“Yes, boys, I saw the very three animals you describe go by down 
there — let’s see now, when was it? Oh yes, about the middle of 
yesterday evenin’. I was settin’ here by the door. The big, spotted 
fellow was in the lead, but the others kept right close behind him. 
The young cattle stopped every now and then to nibble a bite of 
grass, but the old one just kept joggin’ along steady-like. I couldn’t 
help noticin’ ’em.” 

“Well, we’re glad to hear of the sly rascals once more,” Frank as- 
sured him. 

“How fur have you come lookin’ for ’em?” the miller inquired, 
with a glance at Frank’s saddle-bags. 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


65 


“I’m nearly two weeks from home. Can’t say just how many 
miles I have traveled,” was my answer. 

“I’ve been on the road about ten days,” said Frank. “But we were 
water-bound a good share of that time.” 

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed the miller, dusting his clothes vig- 
orously. “Well, you’re nosin’ the scent like old trailers. But get 
down — get down and stay all night with me. I’m Here by myself, 
and I’ll be the gladdest kind to have you.” 

We declined, telling him we would buy a few feeds of corn for our 
horses, if he had any to sell, and then go down the creek several 
hundred yards and camp. The grazing was rather too scanty here 
to depend on. But the miller insisted so earnestly that we finally 
consented to spend the night with him. 

He furnished us shelled corn for our horses, and when we tried 
to pay him he refused to accept a cent. During the conversation 
which followed he made use of a favorite saying of his, which was 
a key to the man’s character: 

“Fellow that won’t get down off his horse and pour out his corn, 
to lend his neighbor his sack to go to mill with, ain’t no neighbor 
at all.” 

The miller cooked and slept in two small rooms adjoining the mill- 
room; and in one of these we ate our supper, the mill grinding stead- 
ily all the while. 

After we three had washed the dishes the miller lighted a smoky 
lamp in the mill-room, and refilled the hopper. Then we all went 
out, taking our chairs, and sat in front of the door. The water had 
a musical sound as it poured down, broken by the steplike turning 
of the big wheel, and by the soft, gentle grinding, inside, of the little 
mill, not much larger and scarcely as noisy as a big coffee-mill. 

“Powerful sight of company, that water is, after you once get 
used to it,” the miller assured us. “When I first put up this mill 
here, nearly fifteen years ago now, the noise bothered us a little, me 
and my wife. But after we’d been livin’ by it awhile we just natur- 
ally come to like it. My wife used to say that when she got out of 
bearin’ of this water-fall she always felt kind of lost and lonesome- 
like. And when she died, three years ago last June, though she’d 
never said a word about it, I kind of thought she’d like it better and 
so we dug her grave right out there at the foot of the mountain, in 
plain bearin’ of the water. And I’ve let all my neighbors understand 
that when my time comes to go I want to be laid out there, too.” 

After telling us this the man remained silent for a minute or so, 
and we respected his silence. 

But he was far from being a morbid or gloomy man, this moun- 
taineer miller, living alone though he was. Indeed, we found him 
very cheerful. And he had become something of a philosopher in 
his way. He had settled here with the very first settlers. And not 
long afterwards he had startea his water-mill. He told us many 
interesting experiences of those early days, some strange, some ex- 
citing, and most of them laughable. For he had a way of picking 
out cheerful things to talk about. 

When bedtime came the miller showed us our bed, in the room 
adjoining the mill-room. 

“You two sleep there,” he said. 

“But where are you to sleep?” I wanted to know. 

“Oh, I do most of my sleepin’ in a chair these nights. You see 
I’m behind with my grindin’ just now, and Jiave to run day and night 
to ketch up. My mill’s little and grinds mighty slow. But I don’t 
keep awake all night long — not me. I just fill the hopper chuck 
full of corn, then set down in my chair and tilt back against the 


66 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


wall and go to sleep. The mill makes a different noise when it runs 
empty, and that always wakes me. Then up I bounce and fill the 
hopper with corn ag’in. That way I get a lot of grindin’ done at 
night, and don’t lose much sleep either.” 

To shut out some of the noise the miller closed the door between 
our room and .the mill-room. But the sound of the little mill, chew- 
ing away steadily on its dry supper, came through the planks. And 
the music of the splashing water and revolving water-wheel filled 
all the air. Instead of keeping me awake, as I had half expected, 
these sounds quickly lulled me to sleep. 

Voices in the mill-room awoke me. The miller’s was among them, 
but there were two others, both louder and harsher than the miller’s 
quiet -tones. I had not heard the men enter, but they had evidently 
just come, for one of them was explaining: 

‘T’m a sheriff, and this is one of my deputies. We’ve been trailing 
some cattle-thieves, and just at dusk tonight we ran onto the rascals. 
For a little while, you’d better believe, we had it hot and heavy. 
They all got away — I don’t know how much damage we did them. 
But they left my friend here with a bullet in his leg to remember 
them by. We saw your light, and thought we’d stop in and try to 
dress the wound.” 

The voice of this speaker was strange, but the voice that answer- 
ed was one I had certainly heard somewhere before, though I could 
not recall Where. 

“Thing got to hurtin’ me so bad I couldn’t hardly ride,” the wound- 
ed man was complaining. “Like stickin’ a knife clean through me 
every time the horse moved.” 

While I was wondering whose the familiar voice could be, the men 
in the other room were examining the wound, as I could make out 
from their conversation. Presently the miller said: 

“Wait a minute, till I fetch a pan and some water and my bottle of 
turpentine. Best thing in the world to put on a wound, turpentine is.” 

He came through the partition-door, leaving it partly open, and 
passed on into the kitchen. 

From my position in bed I could now look into the mill-room, and 
could plainly see the two visitors. The one who had announced him- 
self a sheriff was standing. He was an utter stranger to me. The 
other man was sitting in a chair, with one leg mostly bare, save for 
the dried blood crusted on it. At the sight of his face I gave a 
start; for I recognized him instantly, especially by the black mus- 
tache drooping over the corners of his mouth. He was the princi- 
pal man in charge of the wagon we had rafted across the Cowhouse 
— the wagon with the desperado concealed in it. 

“But who is the other man?” I questioned myself. And the ans- 
wer that flashed into my mind was: “That must be the fellow that 
was in the wagon; that must be Bill Edsell himself.” And I lay 
there staring at him. 

Presently the miller passed back into the mill-room, shutting the 
partition-door after him, and shutting the two men out of my sight. 
Instantly I sat up in bed. 

“So that’s the way the wind blows, is it?” I said to myself. “You 
fellows are at your lying tricks again. Instead of being officers 
you’re outlaws. And instead of getting that wound from catPe- 
thieves, you got it from some sheriff. Yes, that’s it; you’ve met 
Sheriff McCracken.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


FOUND AND LOST AGAIN. 

N OW I turned to- arouse my bed-fellow, but found him already 
wide awake. He had only just awakened, however, and had 
not caught sight of the visitors in the mill-room. But he, 
too, had half recognized the wounded man’s voice; and he was not 
greatly surprised when I informed him who the man was, and who 
I suspected his companion to be. 

After listening a few minutes to the conversation in the other 
room, Frank slipped out of bed and stole to the door, where he 

peeped through a crevice. When he had come back and lain down, 

he whispered: 

“Yes, that’s our tricky fellow. I know his mark and brand. And 
the fellow with him must be bad Bill. Pretty impudent in them, try- 
ing to pass themselves on our friend for officers.” 

“Don’t see that we can do anything. We couldn’t arrest them, of 
course. It would take half a dozen men to do that, armed and des- 
perate and on their guard as these fellows are.” 

“Well, it’s a pity to let the rascals get away when they’re wanted 
so badly. But it can’t be helped, I suppose.” 

After the injured man had had his wound washed and bandaged, 

the other visitor inquired of the miller if he could furnish them 

something to eat. The miller offered to prepare them a warm sup- 
per if they cared to wait; but they had not time for that, they told 
him, and he went to the kitchen and brought in something already 
cooked. He also gave them corn to feed their horses. Not long af- 
terwards they mounted and rode on. 

Even before the hoof -beats of their horses had died away down 
the rocky road Frank and I were up, informing the miller that he 
had entertained angels unawares — angels of darkness. 

Our good friend could scarcely restrain his astonishment on learn- 
ing how the wounded man must have received that bullet, and that 
one of the pair was probably the notorious, much-feared Bill Edsell. 

“Well, they ought to be arrested, of course,” the miller finally said. 
“And they will be sooner or later, I’ve no doubt — or killed. But, 
desperado or what not, when a man comes to me bleedin’ and hungry, 
and asks me to bandage his wounds and give ’im a bite to eat, it’s 
not in the heart of a mountaineer to say no.” 

We both endorsed this sentiment; and we certainly liked the 
miller all the better for uttering it. 

A few hours still remained till daylight, and Frank and I went 
back to bed and to sleep. We had breakfast early next morning, and 
during the meal we discussed our visitors of the night before. 

After refiection, the miller was disposed to doubt whether the man 
who had represented himself as a sheriff was really Edsell. One of 
McCracken’s party had started to describe the desperado to us, but 
had stopped on learning that we had caught not so much as a glimpse 
of the fellow in the wagon. Our surmise on the unknown man’s 
identity was based solely on the fact that he was in company with 
the man who had been with Edsell. But the desperado had numerous 


68 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


friends, and, for reasons of prudence would not be likely to stay 
with any one of them very long. 

“He’s been through this country once or twice, Edsell has,” the 
miller told us, “That is, once or twice that we know of, and no 
tollin’ how many times that most of us don’t know of. I never set 
eyes on ’im myself, to recognize ’im, but I’ve talked with people that 
have; and while I don’t recollect just what they said about ’im, I 
got the idy that he was a different lookin’ fellow from the man that 
was here last night. Of course I may be mistaken as to that, though.” 

“Come to think of it now, that man didn’t look as much like a 
villain to me as the man he was with did — the wounded man,” I re- 
marked. 

“That’s just what I kept saying to myself all the time I was 
peeping through that crack at them,” spoke up Frank. 

“Well, the worst men don’t always look the worst,” observed the 
miller. “I’ve seen some mighty fierce-lookin’ chaps that was just 
naturally scared at their own shadders. And I’ve knowed some quiet, 
harmless-lookin’ fellows that would fight the very Old Scratch his- 
self if they once got started. I’ve not much doubt, though, that that 
fellow was a criminal. Birds of a feather flock together, and if he 
was all right he wouldn’t be keepin’ company with the friend of 
outlaws. But there’s a good many hard characters hid away in 
these mountains, I guess, and he might have been any one of ’em,” 

The miller now told us something of Edsell that we had never 
heard before. Though a villain from head to heels, and richly de- 
serving a rope, the desperado was a man of good education. Indeed 
it was even reported that he was a graduate of some well-known 
Eastern or Southern college or university. That, however, was 
doubtless a surmise; for nobody really knew anything about his past 
— where he came from or anything else. 

Both P'rank and I were astonished at this news. Our acquaintance 
was mostly among people of little learning; and we had naturally 
supposed that educated persons, knowing better than others what 
is right, would be sure to do what is right. That may be true in 
the main, but there are numerous exceptions. As the miller ex- 
pressed it: 

“It takes somethin’ besides book-learnin’ to keep a man straight 
when he once makes up his mind to go crooked.” 

Immediately after breakfast we saddled our horses, and after 
vainly trying to induce the miller to accept something for our night’s 
entertainment we mounted and set out on our day’s travel. The 
miller walked down to the road with us; and having wished us early 
success in our cattle-hunt he urged us to stop and spend another 
night with him on our way back. 

All day long we rode, keeping up our search through the moun- 
tainous country. It was much like the proverbial hunt for a needle 
in a haystack. The roads were dim and rough, and most of them 
ended utterly at some cabin, of cedar logs, hid away in some deep 
little cove. Half a dozen of these blind roads were followed out, and 
much of our time was spent in retracing our way. 

About the middle of the afternoon we happened upon a settler 
who told us that our three cattle had stopped in front of his cabin 
the day before, and had licked a while at some stones on which he 
salted his stock. They were then traveling a little east of south, 
instead of southwest. Like ourselves, Lep was evidently confused 
by the mountain roads, which seldom led in the direction he wanted 
to go. He knew his course, doubtless, but dared not cut across the 
mountains. And it was fortunate for us that he dared not. 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


69 


Night overtook us in a wild gorge, between cedar-covered heights. 
And there in a little green, grassy spot we camped. Vic treed a 
squirrel in a young cedar. Frank shook it out for her, and we had 
it, broiled, for supper. Cedar branches broken off and spread under 
our blankets made us a fairly comfortable but very rank-smelling 
bed. Daylight found us on the road again. 

By- noon we had left the cedar-brakes behind. The country we 
now found ourselves in was still somewhat broken, but more people 
lived here, and the roads were better and more traveled. 

Twice today we got word of our cattle. They were now heading 
toward the southwest again. But early in the afternoon we lost the 
trail — lost it as utterly as if the three horned brutes had grown 
wings and flown away. 

House after house we inquired at, but Lep and his followers had 
not been seen. On we hurried, till six or eight houses had been 
passed. Then, knowing that something must be wrong, we took the 
back track. 

“I don’t understand it,” grumbled Frank. “This road leads in 
the very direction they’ve been traveling all the time since they got 
out of the mountains. They must have turned aside to graze, and 
strayed off into the brush.” 

That was my opinion, too. So, riding back the way we had come, 
we hunted out the country on both sides of the road till we arrived 
at a well-traveled cross-road, leading northwest and southeast. 

“Do you think they could have followed either end of this?” asked 
Frank as we reined up at the point of intersection. 

“I don’t see why they should. But they’ve certainly branched off 
somewhere, and we can only And out by trying.” 

And try we did. First we followed the cross-road a mile or two 
to the northwest, inquiring at every house, till we had convinced our- 
selves that Lep’s party had not traveled that way. Then we came 
back to the crossing and started off in the opposite direction — toward 
the southeast. 

At the first place where we inquired they assured us that no such 
animals as ours had passed; and at the second and third places we 
received similar replies. All spoke of a drove of cattle, driven by 
some cattle-buyers, that had marched along here the day before, 
moving toward the southeast. This was no news to us. The trail 
of the drove was very plain. 

But at the fourth house, where we halted just at dusk, a different 
answer awaited us. 

“I didn’t see any three cattle go by by themselves,” the farmer 
made reply. “But in that herd that passed along here yesterday I 
noticed a good-sized spotted steer that answers the description of 
yours.” 

“That must have been some other spotted steer,” I spoke up. “What 
would the buyers be doing with our cattle among theirs?” 

“Well, some of these cattle-buyers ain’t any too partic’lar about 
what they pick up. They’d just as lieve hook onto a few strays as 
not. If the owner happens along and claims ’em, of course they turn 
’em over to ’im. But if nobody comes they keep the cattle, and then 
they’re just so much ahead. That outfit stopped here, and wanted 
to buy some young steers from me, but we split on prices. They’re 
just makin’ a big cattle-buyin’ circuit, they told me. They expect 
to swing round a circle, and then drive back to their ranch, somers 
away out west, in Tom Green county I think they said.” 

“What did that spotted steer look like?” questioned Frank. 

“Well, first and fo’most, and what caught my eye quickest, was 
his outlandish horns. Don’t know when I’ve seen longer, if I ever 


70 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


did. He wore a big bell, too, and was branded on the left hip. I 
didn’t make out the brand, but part of it was raised, I noticed.” 

A raised brand is one where the branding-iron has burnt too deep, 
and the hide puffs up above the surrounding hair, hard as horn. 

^‘And his neck showed signs of the yoke,” the farmer added. 

Frank and I exchanged glances. “That’s Lep all over,” he re- 
marked. 

. “Yes, that’s either Lep or his twin brother,” replied I. “And if 
he’s with that drove, that will explain why our trail dropped out so 
suddenly. They must have met the drove at the cross-roads and 
got taken in. We’d better follow on and find out for sure.” 

“That’s right; we’ll follow on and find out,” Frank agreed. 

We proposed to ride on a few miles farther, but the farmer in- 
sisted that we spend the night with him, and we did. 

The rising sun saw us on the road again. The drove’s trail was 
very distinct, and we lost no time in making inquiries. Occasionally 
when we met somebody or passed people by the roadside, we asked 
how far ahead the cattle were. The drove was marching slowly, 
and by noon we were only a few miles behind. 

We rode as fast as we dared, without tiring out our horses. Well 
on in the afternoon, coming to the top of a hill, we looked down into 
a valley and discovered the strung-out cattle, tramping steadily 
along the road. 

“There’s Lep! Don’t you see him?” I cried, pointing to an animal 
whose spotted back and great horns made him conspicuous among 
many others. “And don’t you hear his bell? I’d recognize that bell 
any time, anywhere.” 

“Well, if that isn’t cool rascality for you!” said Frank. “One 
would suppose that every hoof in that drove belonged to those fel- 
lows. I can recognize one of mine from here, and I’ve no doubt — 
yes, there’s the other one — the steer. They’re all there all right.” 

“We’ve found them at last,” I said, exultantly, more elated over 
this fact than shocked or disappointed because we had found some- 
body driving them off. 

The drove numbered a hundred and fifty head, if not more. There 
were four drivers in charge of the cattle, and a canvas-topped wa- 
gon rattled along in the wake of the drove. 

We rode on at our accustomed gait, and soon passed the wagon 
and came up with the cattle. One driver kept in the rear, mostly, 
and him we engaged in conversation. If at all suspicious of us, he 
concealed the fact. After we had talked with him a few minutes, 
Frank remarked, carelessly: 

“You’ve got three cattle in that drove that don’t belong there.” 

The man stiffened frigidly in the saddle and uttered a fierce oath. 

“What three do you mean? P’int ’em out!” he roared. 

Promptly I pointed to Lep. “That big, spotted fellow, with the bell 
on, belongs to me,” I informed him. 

“That spotted steer! Why, I’ve owned that brute ever since he 
was a suckin’ calf, and his mammy before ’im. I’d just like to see 
the chap that can drive off old Spot without walkin’ over mv dead 
body!” 

Both Frank and I were much taken aback. It had never occurred 
to us that the fellows would dare refuse to surrender our cattle. 

“If you’ve owned him as long as you claim to, what’s his brand?” 

I demanded, angrily. 

“I’m not crammin’ my skull with brands and sech like.” 

“Then which side is he branded on?” I demanded again. The ox 
was some distance ahead, and the brand could not be seen. 

“On the outside!” the driver fairly shouted. And both he and the 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


71 


other drivers, who had dropped back near him, guffawed loudly at 
this joke. 

“That’s exactly what I thought you knew about it,” I answered, 
contemptuously. “The fact is, you never set eyes on that ox till yes- 
terday, and you know it as well as I do.” 

“Nor on that red two-year-old heifer over there close to him; nor 
on that brown yearling steer right over yonder,” put in Frank, 
pointing. “They’re our cattle, all three, and we’ve come for them.” 

“I raised all three of them brutes from calves,” the fellow blus- 
tered. “And no livin’ man can tech a hair of ’em without wadin’ 
knee-deep through our blood! Ain’t that so, boys?” 

“Bet your life it is!” shouted one of the drivers. And the others 
uttered similar expressions, all thickly punctuated with oaths. 

“We’re not blood- waders,” Frank answered. “But we know what 
belongs to us, and we’re going to have what’s ours. Those three 
cattle are our property.” 

“And we’re going to take them, one way or another!” I burst out, 
hotly. I was boiling over with wrath at their rascally, lying im- 
pudence. 

The driver laughed insolently. “If you want ’em, just sail in and 
cabbage on ’em,” he invited. 

“That spotted steer is mine, and I’ll take him wherever I find him!” 
I declared. “Come on, Frank, let’s cut our cattle out!” 

We both urged our horses toward the drove. But before we had 
advanced a dozen yards, the driver’s sharp voice called out: 

“I’d hold up there a minute if I’s you!” 

I was angry enough to ignore him, but something sinister in the 
tones caused me to look back — into the muzzles of four cocked six- 
shooters ! 

We both reined up suddenly. We were angry, but not reckless. 
And there’s no denying that four pistols aimed straight at one’s 
head, with four reckless dare-devils behind them, have a wonderfully 
chilling effect even on the hottest temper. And mine was so hot just 
now that it almost sizzled and sputtered, like a red iron dropped into 
a snow-drift. 

Frank and I exchanged looks. “They’ve got the drop on us,” he 
remarked, quietly. 

There was nothing else to do, and we stood still. where we were 
and let the cattle-thieves ride on. When thirty or forty yards away, 
one of them — one who had spoken before — turned in his saddle and 
called out: 

“Let me give you two boys a little free advice. Turn round in the 
road and ride home, as straight as you can and as fast as you can. 
And don’t stop to gabble with anybody on the way. If you do, you 
may be overhauled, and then your friends will grieve themselves to 
death waiting for you.” 

We sat in our saddles, staring at the fellow. His looks and tones 
were far more threatening that his words; but it was the man him- 
self that caught our attention, rather than his threats. He had 
been some distance ahead at first, and we had failed to notice him. 
But now we recognized him instantly. 

He was the man who had stopped at the mill in the mountains, 
with his wounded companion that night — the man who had repre- 
sented himself as a sheriff, and whom we had at first suspected of 
being the desperado. Bill Edsell. 

For some reason both Frank and I preferred to face the fellows 
till the last of them was beyond shooting distance. Then with one 
accord, and without a word, we turned and started slowly back the 
road. 


72 


ACROOKED TRAIL 


^ “The impudent scoundrel!” Frank presently burst out, irritated 
by those last threats. “Wouldn’t I like to see him jerked up to a 
limb?” 

Though we little suspected it now the day was soon to come when, 
far out in the wilds, we should see that very thing. And justice to 
both of us requires me to state here that, so far from taking part 
in it or exulting over it, we did whatever we could to prevent it. It 
is one thing to wish something in hot blood, and another and very 
different thing to stand by deliberately and see the wish come to pass. 

Bitter disappointment sank into our very souls as we reflected on 
this failure of ours to regain possession of our cattle; and that, too 
after we had trailed them so long and so far. And the last driver’s 
implied threats, that we might be pursued and shot if we dared to 
inform on the thieves, only added insult to injury. We were not 
seriously worried by the threats, however. 

After riding several hundred yards, I turned in my saddle and 
gazed toward the cattle. I could still make out Lsp’s spotted back 
and white horns among the horned throng, and the sight fired my 
blood. 

“Wish I had a Winchester!” I burst out, in hot, helpless rage. “I’d 
like to drive a few bullets at those scoundrels!” 

“That wouldn’t do. They’re too many for us,” replied Frank. 
“Our wisest way is to set the sheriff on the robbers. That’ll hit 
them harder than anything we can do to them ourselves. The pen- 
itentiary is gaping for every one of them.” 

“And I hope to see every scoundrel of them on the road there,” 
answered I. “They’ll shed some of their insolence, I rather guess, 
when they’re togged out in striped duds.” 

We followed back the road to the first house, and there halted to 
make , inquiries. After learning what county we were in, and the 
road to the county-seat, we set off rapidly to find the sheriff. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


OUTWITTED BY THE CATTLE THIEVES. 

E had started from near the county-line and the county-seat 



was twelve miles away. Night came down upon us before 


we had covered half the distance. Now we stopped at a 


farm-house, and obtained some corn and oats for our horses and 
some supper for ourselves. After resting an hour or so we saddled 
up again and rode on. 

It must have been between nine and ten o’clock when we entered 
the square of the unlighted little town. First we made our way to 
the sheriff’s office, in the court-house, and pounded a while on a 
locked, unresponsive door. Then we started out in quest of the 
sheriff’s residence. It was on the outskirts of the town, we were told; 
but not till we had stopped at two or three wrong houses did we 
discover the right one. 

The sheriff was in bed, and when we finally succeeded in drawing 
him out to the gate he came grumbling, evidently in a bad temper 
over his interrupted slumbers. He listened to our story in surly si- 
lence, broken only by an occasional gruff, ill-natured question. 

“Well, come round to the office in the morning, and I’ll go with 
you after the fellows,” he finally told us. 

“Why not make the ride tonight?” asked Frank. “It won’t take 
half as long.” 

“No, I’m not going tonight,” was the growling reply. “I’ve got 
something else to do besides gad about over the country in the dark.” 

“I thought sheriffs and doctors always went when they were need- 
ed, and not when it was convenient,” I put in, as respectfully as I 
could. The mere suggestion of delay frightened me. 

“Well, I won’t stir a step till morning; so that’s all there is to it,” 
was the gruff reply. 

Frank tried to argue the matter, but the longer the sheriff was 
talked to the grumpier he became. Soon he turned round and 
started back to the house. „ , - 

“All right! We’ll see you early tomorrow morning, I called after 
him. Then we rode away. 

First we hunted up a livery stable and bought some feed for our 
horses. Carrying that, we rode out to a prairie which came close 
up to the town, and there we camped, under a big live-oak. 

“All this slowness is enough to drive a fellow frantic,” I grumbled 
to my friend. “No telling where that gang will be with our cattle 
by the time we get back over there tomorrow.” 

“That’s right. Still, this is more convenient in some respects. 
Our horses are too tired for any more traveling just now. If there’d 
been another ride tonight we’d have had to put them in the livery 
stable and hire others. By morning, though, they’ll be ready for the 
road again. Let’s hope those fellows won’t try to run away.” 

“Don’t bank on that, Frank. They know we’ll have the officers af- 
ter them.” , , 

“They may believe they gave us such a scare that we 11 never stop 

running till we get home.” 

“I’d like to think they’re big enough gumps to believe that; but 
I’m afraid they’re not.” 


74 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


We, as well as our horses, were very weary; and without doubt 
we should have slept soundly but for the hogs that swarmed around 
our camp all night long. A hundred times at least Vic chased them 
back from our immediate vicinity ; and every’ time one of them felt 
her sharp teeth it squealed loud enough to frighten away sleep. 
Indeed, as I recall that night, it seems little more than a long night- 
mare of grunts and squeals. 

“No more camps around town for me, if you please,” growled 
Frank, next morning. “This beats a hog-ranch out of sight. These 
long-legged long-noses that forage a town over are always on the 
edge of starvation; and they’re impudence itself.” 

In the dim dawn we ate a breakfast of cold scraps from Frank’s 
saddle-bags; and by the time it was light .we were mounted and 
riding round to the court-house, which stood in the center of the 
square and of the town. The sheriff’s office was still locked fast, and 
we sought his residence again. To our disgust he and all his family 
were still abed and asleep. 

We “rousted” him out. But at least two hours had dragged by 
before he had swallowed his last bite of breakfast. Frank and I 
waited and waited and waited, till we were well-nigh beside our- 
selves with impatience. And to try us still further, every time Du- 
gan saw us — Dugan was the sheriff’s name — he grumbled and 
growled at us because we had twice broken into his sleep. 

At last, however, he was ready to do something, and we all march- 
ed over to the court-house. There the warrant for the cattle-thieves 
was made out. Then Dugan, after telling us to wait, announced that 
he was now going out for his horse and some deputies. 

“We want a force strong enough to over-awe the thieves,” he in- 
formed us, as he passed out at the door, leaving us alone in the office. 

“The sleepy-headed old poke-easy! Will he never get a move on 
him?” said Frank, almost through his teeth. 

“It’s not in him to hurry,” I answered. “He’s first cousin to a 
snail.” 

“Yes, and full brother to a terrapin,” declared my friend. 

But at last, after our patience had been worn to frazzles the sher- 
iff returned with three deputies. They were all mounted now, and 
all armed, with six-shooters and Winchester rifles. Frank and I 
sprang into our saddles, and away the six of us went. The sun had 
already traveled far on his day’s journey. But, late or early, we 
two were delighted to see the road under us once more. 

Instead of going to the place where we had left the cattle Dugan 
decided that we should cut across the country and intercept the 
thieves farther down the same road. Frank and I were willing 
enough; for we were afraid that the party might have traveled most 
of the night, and would be very hard to overhaul. However, there 
was also danger that they had changed their course; in which event 
we might be traveling away from them instead of toward them. 

Even when under way we moved rather slowly; or at least it so 
seemed to my impatience. And it was high noon when we arrived 
at the road along which the thieves were supposed to be traveling. 
A glance showed us that a considerable drove of cattle had passed 
by here very recently, and we turned and rode after them. From a 
man in a wagon we learned that the drove was only a few miles ahead. 

An hour or two later we rounded a bend in the road, and found 
ourselves close upon the cattle and their drivers. They were moving 
along at a very leisurely gait. Plainly not the slightest attempt 
had been made to run away. 

There were but three drivers now, we noticed. The man whom we 
had once suspected of being Bill Edsell — and who, we had yet to 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


75 


learn, was in reality that much-dreaded desperado — was no longer 
among them. But the other three we easily recognized as the fellows 
who had thrust their pistols into our faces the day before. 

The six of us rode along quietly till we had almost passed the 
drivers. Then, of a sudden. Sheriff Dugan and his deputies wheeled, 
each with a cocked six-shooter, covered the three men, and ordered 
them to throw up their hands. 

Somewhat to my surprise, the fellows who had been so bold and 
defiant the day before now submitted meekly, without offering to 
draw a weapon, or making even a show of resistance. Up went their 
six hands as one hand. 

“What — what -does this mean?” inquired their leader, mildly, with 
just idignation enough in his tones to make his words sound sincere. 
It was the same fellow who had blustered to us about wading through 
blood knee-deep. 

“It means that I’m the sheriff of this county,” answered that of- 
ficer pompously, “and that I have a warrant for your arrest.” 

He drew the paper from his pocket and proceeded to read it. All 
the time both he and his deputies held their cocked six-shooters in 
the faces of their three prisoners. Frank and I sat quietly in our 
saddles, interested spectators of the striking scene. 

“What are you arrestin’ us fur? I don’t quite understand,” said 
the drover, still very mildly, after the reading had ended. 

“Why, didn’t you hear? For stealing cattle. Or at least for hav- 
ing stolen cattle in your possession and refusing to surrender them 
to the owners.” 

One of the deputies now rode up close to the prisoners and searched 
them, each in turn, but failed to find a single weapon. Dugan was 
surprised, and so were Frank and I. But we needn’t have been. The 
prisoners, foreseeing the sheriff’s visit, had doubtless left their six- 
shooters in their wagon. 

“You can put down your hands now,” Dugan told them. And he 
and his deputies put up their weapons. 

“Sheriff,” said the drover, “there’s my cattle. Ain’t a single cow- 
brute in that herd but what I’ve bought and paid hard cash fur. 
Most of ’em I’ve got bill of sales fur. If any of ’em’s been stole, it 
wasn’t me that stole ’em. Who is it accuses us of stealin’ any of ’em?” 

“These boys here.” The sheriff made a motion toward Frank and 
me. 

The drover looked at us mildly, and then at the officer. 

“What animals in this outfit do they claim, sheriff?” 

“Point ’em out, boys,” said Dugan to us. 

We turned toward the drove. The cattle had stopped, but most of 
them were scattering over some open land to graze. So excited had 
we been over the arrest that we had failed to notice the drove. Now 
we ran our eyes over them, hastily at first, then again, more care- 
fully. Soon we looked at each other, blank consternation in our faces. 

“Well, why don’t you point ’em out, without waiting all day?” de- 
manded the sheriff, irritably. 

“They’re not here. They’ve all been cut out,” Frank replied. 

Dugan uttered an angry exclamation. “Didn’t you two make oath 
that these men had your cattle in their herd?” he demanded. 

“Of course we did,” answered Frank, with some spirit. “But we 
didn’t make oath that they’d keep them there for all time. They’ve 
been cut out, I told you.” 

“We’ve been so eternally long getting here, they could have been 
cut out and run off a hundred times,” growled I, bitterly disappoint- 
ed and disgusted. 

That was true enough. But there are many true things it were 


76 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


wiser to leave unsaid. And certainly my remark, and probably 
Frank’s also, belonged to that class. The sheriff had a peevish, 
spiteful temper, and our thrusts at his slowness irritated him and 
turned him hopelessly against us. 

“Are these the same men that you claim to have seen driving off 
your cattle yesterday?” he demanded of us. 

“They’re three of them,” I replied. “One that was here yesterday 
is not here now.” 

Then the sheriff turned to the drover. “Did these chaps” — he 
jerked his thumb contemptuously toward us — “come to you yester- 
day evening and lay claim to some of your cattle?” 

“Yes; they come tearin’ onto us and claimed that “black and white 
steer over there, and some half a dozen yearlin’s and two-year-olds. 
And when I wouldn’t let ’em ride right in and cut out what they 
wanted, they ripped and cussed around like all git-out. First they 
threatened to shoot us. And when they found we wouldn’t bulldoze 
worth a cent, they rode off swearin’ they’d sic’ the sheriff on us. 
And they’ve been as good as their word about that, I see.” 

This was too much. Neither Frank nor I ever used profanity under 
any circumstances. But we could use pretty vigorous language 
sometimes, when our tempers blazed up; and this was one of the 
times. 

“Well, you’re the biggest liar!” I burst out, hotly. 

But Dugan stopped me with a motion of his hand. “Wait till it’s 
your put-in,” he ordered, in tones that did not soothe my already 
sorely tried temper. 

“Are there any cattle out of this drove that were in it yesterday?”" 
he inquired. 

The drover hesitated, as if from the desire of a conscientious man 
to be very careful in his statements. 

“Nary hoof,” he declared. “We bought a few late yesterday ev- 
enin’ and fifteen or twenty head more this mornin’, but nary cow- 
brute did we let go. Ain’t that so, boys?” he appealed to his fel- 
low-prisoners. 

Both declared unhesitatingly that he spoke the truth. Frank 
started to say something, and so did I; but Dugan, without looking 
at us, cut us off with a contemptuous gesture. 

“I believe every word you say, men. And I owe all three of you 
an apology for stopping you as I did. But I’ve been imposed on. 
You can go on about your business now. And as for you chaps,” he 
sneered, turning to Frank and me, “I’ve half a mind to arrest both 
of you and clap you in jail, and let you lay there a few weeks, just 
to learn you not to act so smart next time.” 

This was said in a malicious, spiteful way, which the words alone 
give little impression of. 

I was astounded at the turn affairs had taken. And having no 
doubt that the sheriff’s power in such matters was -little short of ab- 
solute, I dared not open my mouth. But Frank, the son of a justice 
of the peace, had picked up numerous scraps of law in his father’s 
court, and understood his rights better. 

“Put us in jail if you dare!” he returned, angrily. “We haven’t 
violated any law, and we’ve got plenty of friends that will stand by 
us till the last. Nice suit for damages you’ll have on your hands — 
you and your bondsmen! And you’ll pay us a hundred dollars in 
gold for every day we spend behind bars.” 

Dugan sneered, and his deputies and the cattle-men laughed loud- 
ly, derisively. The cattle-men could well afford to laugh. But the 
officers made no move to arrest us. 

Frank turned his horse. “Let’s be riding, Travis. When the of^ 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


IT 


fleers of the law take sides with thieves to cheat honest people, it’s 
high time for honest people to be hustling for themselves.” 

We started back the road, followed by the jeers of Dugan’s party 
and the thieves. Once I turned to reply, sarcastically, but Frank 
stopped me. 

“Don’t waste breath on such fellows,” he said aloud. Then he 
added, in a lower tone: “We’d better travel from here as fast as we 
can. The officers will soon go, and then that robber-gang will be 
none too good to follow us and shoot us down, for spite. I’ve heard 
of such things more than once.” 

Soon we noticed the sheriff’s party following. Not caring to come 
in contact with them again, we rode fast enough to leave them far 
behind. 

“Disgusting, isn’t it?” I remarked, as we trotted along. “Excuse 
me from any further dealings ’^ith that kind of fellows. Sheriffs 
and deputy sheriffs are sorry truck anyhow,” I added, with the nat- 
ural tendency of youth to jump at hasty and sweeping conclusions. 

“That they are!” Frank agreed with me, in hearty disgust. “We 
could have done better by ourselves.” 

“We couldn’t possibly have done worse,” I declared. 

“Now Thavis, the question is: What became of those cattle?” 

Both of us studied long and hard before attempting to answer it. 

“That gang may have sold them to somebody along the road,” An- 
ally ‘suggested Frank. 

“Or that other man that was with the outfit yesterday may have 
driven them off some other way,” was my surmise. 

“Yes, either of those things might have happened, Travis. And 
then comes another question: If that man drove them off where 
will he drive them to?” 

“He’s likely to follow some round-about course till the danger blows 
over, and then circle back to the drove.” 

“If we knew he’d do that, we ought to be following on.” 

“Yes, if we knew, Frank. But we don’t know — we can’t know till 
we And out. We’d better ride on back till we run across the cattle 
themselves, or learn what’s gone with them. Even if we don’t And 
them, we ought to stumble onto their trail somewhere. Then we’ll 
not be running around blindfolded.” 

“That’s right, I guess. We’d better try to strike the scent again. 
Old Lep’s an easy brute to track. He’s so noticeable that wherever 
he passes in daylight you can get news of him. And we ought to 
be expert trailers by this time — hard to shake off.” 

So we followed back the road, seeking diligently, searching tire- 
lessly, for the lost trail. House after house, house after house we 
inquired at. Though every farmer recalled the drove of cattle, no- 
body seemed to have caught even a glimpse of Lep. But our per- 
severing search was not to go unrewarded. 


CHAPTER XV. 

DRIVING AWAY OUR OWN CATTLE. 


T last, just as night was settling down, we halted at a neat- 
looking farm-house set in the midst of a grove of hackberries; 



^ ^ and there, in reply to our questions, we learned what we were 
so anxious to learn. 

“Do I recollect any longhorned, spotted steer in that bunch of cat- 
tle? Well, I ruther guess I do,’’ the farmer at the woodpile assured 
us. “Couldn’t well help noticin’ that animal. He was mostly white, 
with reddish-brown spots and wore a bell. He was in the herd when 
it stopped here, but not when it moved on.” 

And then, in answer to our eager questions, the man threw down 
his ax and came out to explain. 

“I’ll tell you how it was. While the first drove was standin’ here 
another drove not quite as big happened along, and the owner of it 
wanted to buy some cattle. I told ’im I’d just parted with the last 
hoof I had to spare. I’d sold five head to the first man. But the 
first buyer he spoke up and said ruther than have the other fellow 
disappointed, he’d sell ’im a few cattle. So they dickered around a 
while, and finally traded. I saw the money change hands. One of 
the cattle that changed owners was that big, spotted steer. There 
was six or eight others went with ’im; but I didn’t notice any of 
the rest of ’em very close.” 

“What way did he drive from here — the man that bought the 
spotted steer?” I inquired. 

“That outfit come along that cross-road there, and kept on west 
from here.” 

“And that’s the way our cattle went,” remarked Frank. 

“No doubt about it,” I answered. 

“Did any of the hands desert the first drove and take up with the 
other?” questioned Frank. 

The man shook his head. “No changin’ hands that I saw.” 

“How many men were with the first drove?” I wanted to know. 

“Three, not countin’ the wagon-driver; and they all went on with 
it.” 

“So the man we’d seen at the water-mill must have left the outfit 
before they got this far,” remarked Frank. 

The farmer was evidently getting very curious to know what all 
these inquiries meant. And we now explained exactly how matters 
stood, dwelling particularly on our experiences with the cattle- 
thieves and the sheriff. 

“That fellow Dugan is a slow-poke and a cross-patch and a fool 
to boot,” the man declared, indignantly. “I said so before he was 
elected, and I still stand by it. I worked ag’inst ’im the last time, 
and I expect to fight ’im harder if he ever tries for office again. He’s 
a disgrace to the county.” 

We were now about to start out on the other road, on the trail 
of our cattle, but the farmer would not hear to our riding any farth- 
er tonight. So we staid with him. Next morning he announced: 

“If you boys just say the word. I’ll saddle my horse and ride to 
town with you, and we’ll make that fellow Dugan do something, 
whether he wants to or not; or we’ll know the reason why.” 

“We’re many times obliged to you, sir,” replied Frank. “But we 
both got all we wanted of that bunch of slowness. Even if he tried 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


19 


to do anything, our cattle could be run all the way to Mexico before 
he could get well in motion.” 

“That’s all so — every word of it,” agreed the farmer. 

“Our cattle have got into honest hands now, I hope, and we 
oughtn’t to have much trouble getting possession of them when we 
once overtake them,” I remarked. 

The farmer scratched his head, doubtfully. “I wouldn’t be too 
dead certain about the honest part,” he replied. “The man that 
bought your cattle may be as honest as the day is long — or he may 
not. I didn’t notice anything suspicious about ’im. But I didn’t 
notice anything suspicious about the other fellows, either. They 
may all be buyin’ some cattle and pickin’ up some the easiest way 
they can. And the whole business looks suspicious to me now. 
That’s an old trick for cattle-thieves to meet openly somewhere and 
swap stolen stock; so that if any of ’em get caught, they can prove 
by good witnesses that they bought every hoof in their herds.” 

When we had saddled and mounted and were about to ride away, 
the farmer said: 

“Well, I hope you’ll find your cattle, and get ’em without much 
trouble. But I doubt if you will. Whatever you do, keep your eyes 
open. Cattle-thieves are desperate fellows, most of ’em; and they’re 
dangerous for unarmed boys to deal with, especially out in that 
thin-settled country where you’ll be likely to overhaul ’em. Between 
murder and the penitentiary, they’ll choose murder every pop. If 
I can be of any help to you, don’t fail to let me know. I’ll go with 
you any time, day or night, rain or shine. And so will some of my 
neighbors. We don’t love a horse-thief or a cattle-thief around here.” 

We thanked him warmly, and were quickly riding away, on the 
new-found trail of our cattle. Our road was one we had never 
traveled till now, and our present course was almost due west. 

“What shall we do when we run onto that outfit?” I inquired of 
my traveling companion. 

“That’s a riddle for us to solve. But they’ve got thirty hours the 
start, and maybe thirty or forty miles, and there’ll be plenty of 
time to think up something. Unless they lie by somewhere, it may 
take us two or three days to overhaul them. We don’t want to ride 
too hard.” 

“No. We mustn’t break our horses down. But there’s one thing 
I’ve already decided, Frank. From here on we depend on ourselves. 
No more leaning on broken sticks of sheriffs for me.” 

“Nor for me,” he agreed, heartily enough. 

All day long, save- only for a short rest and grazing spell at noon, 
we followed the trail of the moving cattle. But they were marching 
briskly, and were still a good many miles in the lead when night 
called a halt on us. We camped near a farm-house, going to the 
house for our supper and for feed for our horses. 

Another day, from sunup till sundown, we rode the trail, still 
without overtaking the drove. During the last few days we had seen 
little besides open, comparatively level country. But late this last 
afternoon we entered a rougher region. Here the settlements were 
scattering, and the country was largely given up to stock-raising. 

Night found us a few miles from any house, and we camped in 
a little circular patch of prairie, hedged in for the most part with 
thickets of dogwood and green-briers. 

At the last cross-roads store we had bought some cheese and 
crackers and a chunk of dried beef. But I was hungry for fresh 
meat*. Snatching Frank’s six-shooter out of the saddle-bags, I 
whistled to Vic and started off in the quest of game. Fifteen minutes 
later I had returned with two squirrels, one of which we broiled and’ 
ate for supper and the other for breakfast. 


80 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


The drove we were trailing was now only a few miles ahead, as 
we learned by inquiring at the first house we came to next morning. 
The owner of the drove had stopped there to buy some steers, and we 
learned by chance that his name was Hart. We might have over- 
taken the party by noon; but for some reason we slackened our speed. 
Our nooning-place was a dry camp, but about three o’clock we came 
to a clear, running creek. 

^‘Look here, Frank,^’ said I, “we’re right on the heels of that outfit, 
and still we don’t know what we’re going to do when we come up with 
it. Why not lie by here till morning? The rest will be good for our 
horses. And by morning we ought to know — must know just what 
to do and say when we find our cattle.” 

My friend was willing enough, and we went into camp a few hun- 
dred yards from the road. First we found a deep place and had a 
good swim, amusing ourselves in the clear, cool stream for an hour 
or two. Then, having no change of clothes with us, we washed our 
underclothes, shirts and socks as thoroughly as we could in the cold 
water. We had done this once before, while flood-bound on the Cow- 
house. Afterwards, clad in nothing but our pantaloons, we hung our 
clothes on some bushes in the sunshine to dry, and then retreated to 
the shade to keep from blistering. 

Now we threw ourselves down on the grass, by our saddles, and 
fell to debating the hard question we had stopped there to decide. 
The horses were grazing, and Vic, weary after much traveling, was 
sound asleep and slept till late. 

• When morning came, we had still not decided upon any definite 
plan of action. However, we would push on till we overtook the 
drove, and then let circumstances determine our course. Much would 
depend upon the estimate we formed of Hart, the owner of the drove. 
If we believed him to be an honest man, the matter would be simple 
enough. But if he seemed of doubtful character — 

That problem was still too hard for us, but we rode on neverthe- 
less. We must have been only two or three miles behind the cattle 
when, between nine and ten o’clock, we came to a log schoolhouse in 
the woods by the roadside. Wagons were standing around and horses 
were hitched to trees; and a little crowd of people had asembled, not 
in the schoolhouse, but under a brush-shed, or arbor, in front of the 
door. They were singing earnestly as we rode by. 

“Did you know it was Sunday?” asked Frank. 

“No; I’d forgot all about the days of the week. Wish we had time 
to stop. I always go to Sunday-school and preaching when I’m home.’* 

“So do I. Let’s stop anyhow. It don’t seem’ just the thing to be 
hunting cattle on Sunday. We can overhaul that drove by noon to- 
morrow.” 

“I don’t know so well about that, Frank. Sunday or not, it seems 
necessary for us to do some traveling today. But we might stop for 
Sunday-school, and for preaching if there is preaching, and then ride 
on. We can keep close behind the cattle that way.” 

“All right. That’s what we’ll do.” 

We had soon unsaddled and lariated out our horses, and hung up 
our saddles, and were back at the arbor. We had no coats, and our 
clothes were not all that could be desired for the occasion. But clothes 
cut a very small figure in frontier meetings. Few of the men and 
boys present were dressed any better than we were. 

Sunday-school had just begun, and we went under the arbor and 
seated ourselves on a log, flattened a little on top with an ax for 
the purpose. We sat down in the rear of everybody else, but were 
soon invited into a class, and went. After Sunday-school there was 


A C R 0 O E D TRAIL 


81 


a sermon. And after the sermon we started for our horses, but a 
settler followed us and brought us back. 

“This is a basket-meetin’,” he informed us. “There’ll be plenty 
for everybody, and to spare. And nobody ain’t allowed to leave with- 
out his dinner.” 

So we ate with the crowd under the arbor. And very nicely they 
treated us. We were the only strangers present, it seems, and they 
vied with one another in looking after our wants. We had intended 
to take the road very soon after dinner, but were prevailed upon to 
wait till after the afternoon sermon, at three o’clock. When the ser- 
vices had ended, we saddled up and rode on our way. 

Now we traveled faster than usual, to make up for lost time; and 
we intended to keep riding for at least two hours of the night. But 
half an hour after dark we saw a light glimmering ahead, and pres- 
ently found ourselves opposite a considerable camp. 

The camp was perhaps two hundred yards from the road, in a little 
cove set back among the hills. A good-sized camp-fire was burning, 
and several men, ghostly figures in the reddish light, were moving 
back and forth around it. One of them, a negro, was cooking supper. 
Saddles lay scattered about, and a covered wagon, dimly visible, 
stood not many yards back. Some horses could be made out, and the 
occasional lowing of unseen cattle came from somewhere beyond the 
camp. 

“Here they are, Frank,” said I, reining up. “We’ve overhauled 
them at last.” 

“That’s what we have. They don’t seem to have made many miles 
today. But they must have traveled late, or they’d have had supper 
over before now.” 

“Shall we turn out and camp with them?” 

“Let’s see. No, I’m for riding ahead. I’d rather come onto the 
outfit in daylight. We don’t know what kind of fellows they are. 
If they’re thieves, they might smell a mouse if we stopped there to- 
night.” 

“That’s so. But how do we know our cattle are there? Stolen 
animals change hands often, they say. They’re too hot to hold long. 
If we could just find out — ” 

Here the deep tones of a big bell broke out on the night, ringing 
as if the wearer, while lying down, had turned his head to lick himself. 

“Yes, they’re there!” I exclaimed, but cautiously. “That's Lep’s 
bell. I’d know that bell at midnight in Africa.” 

“Well, if Lep’s there, the others are close around, I guess. So we 
needn’t worry about that.” 

Soon we were riding on. The bell rang again, more than once, and 
as I listened to it I could not help saying: 

“If we only — if we only had those three cattle out!” 

“Yes, if we just had!” echoed Frank. “Let’s hope that by this time 
tomorrow night we may have them out and a good long stretch on 
the road toward home.” 

Three-quarters of a mile farther on we turned aside, up into an- 
other cove, and camped for the night. After eating a cold supper, 
we stretched ourselves on our blankets and talked over the situation. 
And a very puzzling, worrying situation we found it. Now that the 
critical time was almost upon us, we found ourselves growing anxious 
and nervous, and more or less excited. 

Bright and early next morning we were awake and astir. But 
instead of taking the road, we remained quietly in camp. It was an 
hour or two later when the drove marched by. A strip of woods hid 
us from anybody passing along the road, but we could distinctly 
hear the shouts of the drivers, the ding-donging of Lep’s bell, the low- 
ing of the cattle, and even the trampling of many hoofed feet. 


«2 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


While the procession was moving by, Frank was busy reloading 
some empty chambers of his six-shooter. 

“What’s that for?” I wanted to know. 

“Oh, nothing in particular. But this* is a wild country, and we 
don’t know what we may run against out here. It’s just as well to 
be prepared. No use being left at the mercy of a gang of cattle- 
thieves, if that’s what they are.” 

Now we mounted and returned to the road. The cattle were not 
far ahead. The shouts of the cowboys could still be heard, rebounding 
from hill to hill. 

First we overtook the wagon. After a few words with its black 
driver we rode on, and a little later came up with the cattle. 

There were four men in charge of the drove, and the first thing we 
noticed about them was that every one had a six-shooter belted around 
him. There was nothing unlawful in this. In enacting law against 
weapon-carrying the legislature had exempted the western portion 
of the state. And we had recently crossed the dividing line. While 
I understood the habits of cowboys, from having been born among 
them, the fact that they had taken the first lawful opportunity to 
buckle on their weapons did not, as it seemed to me, speak’ very fa- 
vorably of their peaceful intentions. 

One of the men — we soon learned that it was Hart, the proprietor 
— was riding behind the cattle; and we rode up and engaged him in 
conversation. 

“Where are you driving your cattle from?” I inquired. 

“From wherever we can pick them up. This is a buyin’ round-up 
we’re on now.” 

“And where are you taking them to?” asked Frank. 

“To my ranch, out beyond Fort Concho. It’s a good distance out — 
entirely beyond the settlements. We’re movin’ in that direction now, 
but we expect to wind about a good deal before we get there. I want 
to take in as many cattle as I can, at reasonable prices.” 

“About what are you paying for cattle these days?” inquired 
Frank. It was a question that any farmer or stock-raiser would be 
apt to ask. 

“Well, that, of course, depends on what they are, their ages, and 
so forth.” 

“That spotted steer over yonder with the bell on — what do you 
count him worth?” I ventured to inquire, with affected carelessness. 

“Well, I forked over twenty dollars for him, only three or four days 
ago. But that wag dirt-cheap. He’s worth twice that if he’s worth 
a cent. He’s broke to work. His neck will tell you that. I got ’im 
from a buyer that didn’t have any use for ’im. Wouldn’t have bought 
’im if I hadn’t got ’im at a bargaip. Ruther guess I’ll sell ’im or 
swap ’im off to some farmer before we get out of the settlements. 
I’m not buyin’ anything but young steers, and heifers and cows to 
take out to the ranch.” 

Hart now dashed out to whip back an animal that had broken away 
from the drove, and Frank and I were left alone together. 

. “Well, how do you size him up?” I. inquired, in .a low tone. 

His brow wrinkled into a frown— a frown of doubt and indecision. 
“I can’t make much , out of him. What do you 'think?” 

“He don’t look to me like a very* good man or a very bad man. 
Guess he’s astraddle of the fence -'between straight and. crooked.” 

“That must be about the way he looks to me. I don’t believe he’s 
dishonest enough to steal.. But is he honest enough to give up stolen 
cattle that he has paid cash for?” 

“He may be, but I doubt it. The only way to find out for certain 
is to try him.” 


'A CROOKED TRAIL 


83 


“And if we do, we stand a fine chance to look into some more six- 
shooters.” 

“No more of that kind of thing for me, if you please. But if we 
don’t lay claim to our cattle, what can we do?” 

Frank looked worried. “Wish I knew,” he said. 

Hart now returned to the road. And soon he began to question us: 

“Which way you travelin’, boys?” 

“We’re out for a little trip,” Frank answered him. “Don’t know 
yet just how far we’ll go. Fine weather; crops all laid by; nothing 
much to do at home. We might as well see some of the country as not.” 

We rode on together for a short time, talking on various topics. 
Presently a steer left the drove, and Hart dashed away in furious 
pursuit. A cow made off on the other side, and I galloped round her 
and brought her back. Hart now returned to us and said: 

“Reckon you boys wouldn’t like a job at cattle-drivin’, would you?” 

“Well now, we might,” I answered, turning questioning eyes toward 
Frank. This was something we had not foreseen. 

“Don’t know why we shouldn’t,” Frank replied, speaking to Hart; 
but his answer was also addressed to me* — to the question I had 
looked. 

“If you didn’t want too much money, don’t know but what I might 
use you for a while,” remarked the drover. “There wouldn’t be a 
great sight for you to do. We’ve got hands enough to look after this 
little bunch as it is now. Only about two hundred and fifty head in 
it, all told.- But I expect to buy a few hundred head more. And if 
I had other hands, I could run off through the country and find more 
cattle than I' can pick up along the main-traveled road. We couldn’t 
move as. fast as we’re movin’ now, but we’d get more cattle in the 
same length of time. What do you want a month?” 

“How much can you pay?” answered Frank. 

“Would fifteen dollars be enough?” . .. 

“Couldn’t you make it twenty?” 

“Don’t believe I could stretch it to that, considerin’ the easy work. 
We’re not rushin’ things much this trip. But as you’ve got your own 
horses and saddles, I might add a dollar or two — say seventeen a 
month. Well, call it eighteen.” 

“How long will you want us?” I questioned. 

“Until we get through buyin’, and strike the trail for the ranch. 
I might even take you on up there if you wanted to go. But of course 
you can drop out whenever you feel like it.” 

Frank and I considered the offer. I had already made up my mind 
to accept it, less for the sake of the wages than because of the op- 
portunity afforded us to stay with our cattle till we could get posses- 
sion of them. 

“Well, what do you say, Travis?” asked Frank, turning to me. 

“We’re going in the same direction anyway. Let’s call it a bargain.” 

“All right. A bargain it is,” Frank remarked to the drover. 
“When do you want us to start in?” 

“Right away, if you feel like it. After dinner I want to take two 
of the boys and run off into the country a few miles, to see what we 
can round up. The rest of you can keep the cattle joggin’ along till 
we overhaul you. Better drop back and leave your saddle-bags and 
things in the wagon.” 

We rode back, and after ridding ourselves of all unnecessary en- 
cumbrances we were soon up with the drove again, busy, shouting 
cowboys now. 

Thus it came about that, instead of claiming our cattle and start- 
ing home with them, we had actually hired ourselves to the drover 
to help drive them farther away. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


WHERE HEROES HAD FALLEN. 

N ot till our party had halted for noon could Frank and I snatch 
• a chance to talk over the strange situation in which we now 
found ourselves. Soon after dinner Hart, accompanied by two 
of his cowboys, Ame Watson and Ben Dankins, rode off on a hunt 
for cattle that' could be bought. The other hand, Newt Lindsay, re- 
mained at the camp to help us keep watch over the drove. 

But a short while after Hart had gone Newt, remarking that there 
was little to do, and that he was about to go to sleep, strolled away 
up the creek in quest of ripe grapes. Sam, the black cook, having 
washed and put away the few dinner-dishes and pots and pans cut 
himself a dogwood fishing-pole, tied a line to the little end of it, and 
set off down the valley. 

“Reckon -little mess o’ fish taste mighty good ’long ’bout supper- 
time,” he remarked as he passed us. “Dey bites de bes’ kin’ in de 
cool, shady places, fish does,” he added, suggestively. 

Most of the cattle were standing or lying in the shade, lazily 
switching flies. Vic was exploring the near-by woods for squirrels. 
Frank and I had resaddled our horses, but had turned them loose 
to graze, while we ourselves took refuge in the friendly shadow of a 
gigantic sycamore. 

“Well, here we are,” I remarked, soon after we had been left alone. 
“Yes, here we are,” repeated Frank. “There lie our cattle, there 
«tand our horses, already saddled, and there’s the road tow'ard home. 
What’s to hinder us from jumping into our saddles, driving up our 
cattle, and taking the back trail?” 

“Sure enough, what is to hinder us?” I answered. “Not a thing 
in the world that I can see — except one.” 

“That’s right — except one,” agreed Frank. “When a man hires us 
to take care of his cattle, and trusts us, we can’t play him that kind 
of a mean trick.” 

“No, we couldn’t sneak off like that. The gate’s open, but there 
are bars behind it, and they’re still up. It looks like a fine chance 
to get out of the pen, but it’s not half as good as it looks. We’ve 
got to wait for something better.” 

“Still it’s a curious shape affairs have worked themselves into. I 
couldn’t have imagined such a thing as this yesterday.” 

“Though we can’t do as we please with our cattle, they’re actually 
in our hands. And that’s something gained. It’s more than we’ve 
been able to say before since we started from home.” 

“Yes, we’ve made a long step forward there, Travis. We can look 
after them ourselves now, and see that they don’t slip out of our 
fingers again. They’re in our possession. Now the question comes: 
how can we get them under control, so that we can cut them out and 
drive for home with them?” 

“That’s a puzzle. The only way I can think of is to march straight 
up to Hart, put in our claim, and have it out with him then and there.” 

“But what will he say — and do?” asked Frank. “I have a suspic- 
ion that he’s pretty hot-tempered, and that the fire flies when he gets 
mad.” 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


85 


From several little things I saw, I’d guess him off about the same 
way. But what are we to do? We can’t let him keep our cattle just 
to keep him in a good humor.” 

“No, of course not. Still, I’d rather get a little better acquainted 
with him, and on friendlier terms with him, before we stir him up. 
He seems like a pretty square sort of a man, but we may have our 
eyes opened by the time we’ve worked for him a few days.” 

“I’ll tell you, Frank. We’re earning fair wages now; and as long 
as that lasts I’m in no great rush to get home. Not much work to 
do there, for pay, this time of year. Suppose we stay with Hart a 
week or so, and see what will turn up. Maybe things will take some 
unexpected twist, like they did this morning.” 

“All right. That may prove the easiest way out of the woods,” 
Frank agreed. And after a little more discussion, the subject was 
dropped for the time. 

Newt, the grape-hunter, came back a good while later; and so, 
finally, did Sam the fisherman. Sam now began to harness his wa- 
gon-mules, and Newt and Frank and I punched up and rounded up 
the cattle and got them under way. This .was according to our in- 
structions. 

About the middle of the afternoon we came upon Hart and his two 
hands, waiting by the roadside with a little bunch of cows and young 
cattle they had bought. The new cattle were thrust into the drove, 
and the three men made another short circuit striking the road again 
three or four miles ahead. The second time they returned empty- 
handed. But a little later Hart bought several yearlings from a 
settler living on our line of march. 

All the new cattle had to be watched closely at first, to keep them 
from breaking out of the drove. Sometimes a rebellious animal 
would escape, and a lively chase would be necessary to bring him 
back. Once well away from their accustomed range, however, the 
new recruits seemed to become reconciled to the new order, and 
marched along quietly enough. With the exception of training these 
latest purchases to drive our work was comparatively easy. 

We were now nearing the Colorado River. When night came down 
upon us, we had camped in sight of it; and next morning Ave marched 
across. From here on, if we had proceeded toward Hart’s ranch, our 
course would have been due west, and parallel with the river. The 
Colorado, at our crossing-point, runs south; but a little farther north 
it bends almost at right angles, and above that for many miles its 
general course is east. The road we were now following was well- 
beaten and dusty. It was the Fort Concho trail. Hart’s ranch, we 
were told, was situated on the Concho River, a tributary of the Col- 
orado, two days’ travel beyond the fort. 

But instead of moving on toward Fort Concho, we now headed al- 
most due south, in the direction of San Antonio. 

The country was more or less broken, and rather thinly settled. 
But all the settlers were cattle-raisers, and most of them had at 
least a few head to sell. And that was what we were out for. 

Hart now informed us that we vmuld travel southward he did not 
know how far, then bend west and double back, striking Fort Concho 
trail twenty or thirty miles nearer the fort than where we had left 
it. The circuit he expected to make would occupy from a week to 
three weeks, according to the rapidity with which we accumulated 
cattle. 

“Well, Frank, we’re tied up for several days now, it seems,” re- 
marked I, the first time we were alone together after the turn south- 
ward, “We’d better not try to get our cattle away till this buying 
circuit winds up.” 


86 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


“No, I don’t see that we can well,” he answered, thoughtfully. 
“But we must be ready to cut loose and strike for home the first 
minute after we get back to that main- traveled trail.” 

I agreed with him; and again we dropped the subject for the pres- 
ent, though it was never out of our thoughts long at a time, I think. 

Now we both wrote letters home and mailed them at the first post- 
office we came to. We explained that we had found the cattle at 
last, and had them with us; but that the man in whose drove they 
now were had offered us fair wages to accompany him on a little 
cattle-buying trip, and we would not start for home for a few days 
yet. As heretofore, we were careful to say, we would write at least 
a postal-card from every post-office on our route. 

Not caring to worry our friends as we ourselves were worried, we 
did not inform them that our cattle were not yet actually in our 
possession, and that we did not know how we could get possession 
of them. On that point, however, we had fully made up our minds. 
Get possession of them we would, one way or another. 

Sometimes, for a change, Frank and I rode out with Hart on his 
little side-trips, to help hhn drive back the cattle he bought. Usually, 
however, our work was with the main drove. At first Newt or one of 
the other cowboys always remained with us; but after two or three 
days Hart got sufficient confidence to leave the cattle in our care. 
We not only held them under herd during his absence, but we also 
did most of the driving, starting and stopping according to his in- 
structions. For reasons that can easily be guessed, we were both 
eager to please our employer, and did the very best we could. 

Every day we made two drives of ten to twelve miles each. By 
this plan the cattle were always either marching or grazing or rest- 
ing; and they had no time left to grow restless. With the exception 
of those just turned into the drove, which had to be watched to keep 
them from breaking out or slipping off into the brush, they gave us 
far less trouble than we had expected. 

One morning, three or four days after we had turned southward, 
Frank and I underwent a very unpleasant experience. 

Immediately after breakfast Hart, accompanied by three cowboys, 
Ame and Ben and Newt, rode ahead to begin the day’s buying. Hav- 
ing allowed the cattle to graze an hour or two longer, Frank and I 
rounded them up and drove on, followed by Sam with the wagon. 

After traveling a few miles we overtook Hart, dismounted by the 
roadside, in front of a cabin. The three hands had ridden on, but 
Hart was talking to a settler, a big, bushy-bearded man dressed in 
pantaloons and shirt of soiled buckskin. Scarcely had the leaders 
marched by the cabin when Hart signaled a halt. We galloped around 
till we got ahead of the cattle, and quickly brought them to a stand- 
still. Then Hart called out: 

“Travis, I wish you’d ride in there and cut out that bell-steer for 
me.” 

Lep was the only belled animal in the drove. I pushed in among 
the cattle and brought him out, stopping him in front of the two 
men. Already I had serious misgivings, which increased to positive 
alarm when Hart turned to the settler and said: 

“There’s that work-steer. He’s a good one, too. I’ll either swap 
him for other cattle, or sell ’im, just as you please. He’s the only 
animal in the drove that ever wore a yoke, I guess. If you’ve got 
an odd steer that will match ’im, he’s worth every cent I ask for ’im, 
and more.” 

Then they proceeded to try to trade. I withdrew a few yards, but 
not out of ear-shot, and waited anxiously, almost in terror, as I 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


87 


thought of the complicated situation that would follow the transfer 
of Lep to a stranger. 

We had recently told Hart that we expected to stay with him at 
least till we touched the Fort Concho trail again. If Lep was sold 
or swapped off, he would be left here, while Frank’s two animals 
would go on with the drove. What we ourselves should do under 
those circumstances there was no knowing. Bitterly I regretted now 
that we had not explained matters to Hart the day we hired ourselves 
to him, instead of weakly procrasting as we had done. 

Presently Frank rode over to me and said, in low tones : 

“You know what’s on foot there, don’t you?” 

“Yes, I do,” I answered with some agitation. 

“Do you think they’ll make a bargain of it?” 

“I believe they will, Frank,” 

“Then, if they do, we’ve got to blurt out the truth here and now,^ 
or forever hereafter keep our mouths shut. We won’t dare hold it 
in a minute longer. If we keep silent and let that steer pass into 
the hands of an innocent purchaser, without making any claim or 
protest, you never can claim him, by law or any other way. Maybe 
your father could, but you can’t.” 

Frank knew more of law than I did. But this view of the matter 
struck me at once as being at least the best kind of common-sense. 
And I know now that it is both good common-sense and good law. 
Every word that reached our ears seemed to indicate that Hart 
and the settler were on the point of coming to an agreement. After 
listening a short time I said: 

“If they trade I’ll speak out right away. And you’d better claim 
your cattle, too. Hart will be mad, mad, mad when we step in and 
knock his trade in the head. And we can’t blame him much.” 

“Mad’s no name for it, Travis. He’ll be crazy — wild. I’d rather 
punch a hornet’s nest twenty times any day. He’ll swear till the 
air’s blue, and then tell us to make tracks. No doubt about that. But 
it will only serve us right. We oughtn’t to have let this matter drag 
so long.” 

“Well, if he chases us off and our cattle with us, we can stand it,” 
I said. “But if he holds our cattle — ” 

“Listen!” whispered Frank. 

The settler and Hart had almost come to an understanding, as it 
seemed. But now, before closing the trade, the settler v/as walking 
around Lep, giving him a critical inspection. 

And the inspection, it soon became evident, was not altogether sat- 
isfactory. . Though he did not say so in so many words, I easily un- 
derstood that he was afraid of Lep — afraid that the ox would prove 
vicious and give trouble under the yoke. Those horns did look threat- 
ening. On that point I could, easily have relieved the man’s fears; 
but, needless to say, I was as silent as a gate-post. 

Seeing that the man in buckskin was trying to back out. Hart, who 
had only a limited stock pf patience,, promptly lost what little he 
had. He ignored the settler, but sprang upon the horse and shouted, 
with ill-concealed ii ritation 

“Drive on, boys! We’ve fooled away too much time here already!” 

And drive on we did, with a hearty good will, glad to have Lep 
still in the drove; and even, gladder, perhaps, to have escaped the 
fury of our quick-tempered employer. 

“But 'the same trouble is liable to turn up again any day,” Frank 
remarked to me, after Hart had left us. “And it’ll be pretty sure 
to end differently next time. We’d better have a plain talk with 
Hart right soon.” 


88 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


^‘That’s the thing. We’ll have it just as soon as — as soon as we 
catch him in a good humor.” 

But a disagreeable duty is never made easier by being put off — 
rather harder. And from day to day we still kept postponing the 
dreaded interview. And the longer we delayed the harder it seemed 
to us to explain why we had not made our claim the first day instead 
of waiting all this time. 

Our party kept on marching southward, from twenty to twenty- 
five miles a day; and every day we added twenty or thirty cattle to 
the drove. Soon we found ourselves but little more than a day’s 
march from San Antonio. 

Hart had not intended to travel any farther south. In fact, he had 
not at first expected to advance as far down as this. But, having 
a little business in San Antonio, he now decided to go on and look 
after it. 

We went into camp a few miles north of the town one night. And 
next morning Hart, in company with Ben Dankins and Ame Watson, 
and followed by Sam with the wagon, set off in that direction. They 
would bring back some supplies. 

It was about two o’clock when the party returned. Now Newt 
Lindsay, Frank and I got ready for a visit. Hart paid all of us some 
money, Frank and me ten dollars apiece; though we had not asked 
for it, and had no intention of spending much. We were going to see 
rather than to spend. 

It was with feelings of the keenest interest that I rode into the 
historic old town. From my childhood I had heard much of it; and 
much I had read of it, in the History of Texas and elsewhere. “San 
Antone” all old Texans called it. It contained several thousand 
people, and was, at the time of our visit, without a railroad. In 
fact, it was a city set out in the wilderness. Its population was large- 
ly, though by no means wholly, made up of Mexicans. 

In appearance it was scarcely an attractive place, even to our in- 
experienced eyes. We rode up and down its principal streets, and 
finally dismounted in a plaza. - Most of the visting people present, 
except the Mexicans, seemed to be cowboys from the neighboring 
ranches. 

One of the peculiar things we noticed in the streets was a wagon- 
train, loaded with barrels of flour, drawn by oxen, and driven by 
Mexican teamsters. It was just coming in from Austin, the nearest 
railroad point. Strictly speaking, it was only a cart-train. But ev- 
ery cart had a big frame on it, so that a huge wagon-load was deftly 
balanced on its two wheels. Each cart was pulled by several yoke 
of oxen; and the yokes, instead of having bows, were lashed to the 
oxen’s horns. 

“Did you ever hear tell of anything half as foolish?” laughed Frank. 

“You needn’t laugh. It’s no laughing matter,” I told him. “At 
least those oxen don’t think so, I imagine.” 

“No, I’d say not,” spoke up Newt. “It’s about the same thing as 
if a .man, instead of puttin’ harness on his horses, was to hitch his 
halter-straps back to the wagon and make ’em pull by their noses.” 

“But why don’t they learn better?” asked Frank. “I see other ox- 
teams here, working with yokes and bows.” 

“Oh, a Greaser never learns anything,” replied Newt, contemptu- 
ously. “If he did, he -wouldn’t be a Greaser.” 

One place in San Antonio we all wanted to see — were resolved not 
to go back without seeing. And after looking over the city, and buy- 
ing the few things we had need of, we directed our., steps to the 
Alamo. 

That thick- walled, battle-scarred old mission-house would have been 


A CROOKED TRAIL 89 


interesting in itself; but it was rendered many times more interest- 
ing to us because of one great historical event. For here, on the sixth 
of March, 1886, had fallen, after a bloody struggle. Colonel Travis 
and all the hundred and eighty-nine heroes who laid down their lives 
to cripple the power of Santa Anna and break the tyranny of Mexico. 

The old building was at this time private property; but the man 
living there cheerfully showed us through. Strange feelings, which 
I shall not attempt to describe, thrilled me as I stood in the room 
where Davy Crockett, the famous backwoodsman and Congressman, 
had made his last stand, fighting with his clubbed, broken rifle till 
he was shot down. In another room we saw where Bowie, the man 
with the terrible knife, had risen from his sick bed to sell his life as 
dearly as possible. 

“And how many Mexicans fell while they were storming this build- 
ing?” inquired Frank. 

“The official report, made by one of the Mexican generals, put their 
loss at about five hundred, I think,” answered the owner of the build- 
ing. “And that’s the number given in most of the histories of Texas. 
But the alcalde that had charge of burying the dead always insisted 
that he buried fifteen hundred. Hard to say who told the truth. But 
five hundred or fifteen hundred, old Santy Anny needed every man 
of ’em about six weeks later, when Sam Houston turned on ’im at 
San Jacinto and literally wiped out his army, and took old Santy 
prisoner.” 

“The one big mistake Houston made was when he didn’t introduce 
Santy Anny to the first good limb he come to, instead of turnin’ ’im 
loose to live forty years longer,” declared Newt, resentfully. For 
the treacherous, cruel Mexican general had long been an object of 
bitter hatred in Texas. 

“Well, it’s better to — to err on the side of mercy than against 
mercy,” remarked Frank. And undoubtedly he was right. 

We lingered about the Alamo till night was upon us, then mounted 
and rode back to camp. 


f 


CHAPTER XVII. 


SOME STARTLING NEWS. 


N ext morning our party swung round and pointed our course 
toward the northwest. We moved steadily in that direction 
till we found ourselves among the mountains — the Hondo 
Mountains, if I have not forgotten — a region of beautiful scenery and 
clear, running streams. After passing through the moun^inous 
country we veered to the northeast, marching by cattle-ranches, 
sheep-ranches and goat-ranches. Later we set our faces due north, 
our present course lying parallel with, and perhaps thirty miles w'est 
of, the route we had followed on our way down. 

All the time our drove was swelling. Besides cattle, Hart was 
buying a few horses, whenever they were offered cheap. Horses and 
cattle were driven along together. Often other buyers brought cattle 
to our camp to sell; and unless they asked too much. Hart usually 
struck a bargain with them. 

And no matter what he bought, he was very careful to require a 
bill of sale, signed by the seller, with a full description of every an- 
imal. When away from the wagon. Hart wrote the bills of sale 
himself; but for animals bought at the camp or on our line of march 
he usually asked me to write them, while he called out the marks 
and brands and other distinguishing features. These bills of sale 
were kept in a good-sized tin-box in the wagon. And it became one 
of my duties to look after the box and keep the papers in ordei. 

Soon after the steadily rising number of our drove had passed six 
hundred Hart took on two more hands, both Mexicans. These new 
men were needed most at night. For though our cattle had stam- 
peded only once, and that without running far or scattering much, 
there v/as no knowing when they would give us serious trouble. 
And common prudence required that a guard be kept over them all 
night long. Frank and I did our full share of this night-herding. 

As we marched northward day after day, drawing nearer and near- 
er to the Fort Concho trail, from which we had started on this 
round, Frank and I grew more and more uncomfortable. Though by 
no means tired of a cowboy’s life, we were now anxious to get start- 
ed toward home; and the day was close at hand when we must have 
that long-dreaded, still-deferred interview with Hart. Again and 
again, when alone together, we berated ourselves for not having 
spoken sooner. But in spite of this, we were no less reluctant to 
speak now. 

We had learned much about our employer during the two weeks we 
had been with him. He was a man of abundant energy, and of no 
small force of character. In appearance he was tall and well-built, 
with dark hair and mustache, and a strong, rather pleasant face. 
That is, it looked pleasant enough when lighted by good humor. At 
such times he was sensible and as reasonable a man as one could de- 
sire to deal with. And he could be very generous. 

But his vices were as pronounced as his virtues. He had a fiery 
temper, easily aroused; and when once it was up, curses and abuses 
flew from him like sparks from a red-hot iron under the blacksmith’s 
hammer. Every day or two we had a veritable thunder-storm of 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


91 


wrath in the camp, with forked lightnings darting in every direction. 

As yet Frank and I had escaped being struck. But we knew it 
was mostly by accident; for when once stirred up the ranchman was 
utterly unreasonable. The very thought of bringing down one of 
those tornadoes of temper on our heads made us shiver. And know- 
ing the man as we now did, we knew as well as if we had tried it 
— or thought we knew — just what would happen when we laid claim 
to some of Hart’s cattle, especially at this late hour. 

“And yet we’ve just got to do something,” Frank had declared 
again and again to me. And again and again I had agreed with him, 
or had declared the same thing to him. But we still put off the evil 
day as long as possible. 

It was not only Hart’s anger that we feared, though we half ex- 
pected him to order us out of the camp. But neither of us believed 
for a moment that he would surrender the cattle to us. And we had 
to admit to ourselves that our weak procrastination had given him 
just grounds for refusing to believe our story. 

One day, while our party was in camp, Frank and I walked down 
to a creek to wash our hands and faces, and Newt Lindsay soon fol- 
lowed us. He was next in age to us, being only twenty-two or twen- 
ty-three. The other men were all between thirty and forty. 

“Have you two boys got good homes?” Newt inquired, rather wist- 
fully it seemed to me, while we were all standing near the water’s 
edge, wiping our faces on our handkerchiefs. 

We were a little surprised, but both of us assured him that we had. 

“Then, if you’ll take a fool’s advice, you’ll go back as straight as 
you can ride, and stay there. Whether you know it or not, there’s 
a lot of crooked work goin’ on in connection with this cattle-business.” 

We had not needed his good advice, as it happened; but we appre- 
ciated his interest in us, and had a better opinion of him for having 
offered it. But his last remark puzzled us. 

“Crooked work! What do you mean by that?” asked Frank. 

Newt was slow to reply, and I took occasion to say: 

“Everything I’ve seen seems to be straight enough.” 

But even as I spoke I recalled that Hart had abused Newt shame- 
fully that morning, in a fit of anger; and naturally the young fel- 
low was feeling bitter over it. 

“Hain’t you boys seen through this thing, yet?” he demanded. 

“Through what thing. Newt?” I hastened to ask. 

“Can you keep a secret?” 

“Of course we can,” Frank answered. 

“We’re as dumb as an ash-hopper,” I assured him. 

“If Hart even guessed what I’m tellin’ you, he’d be mad enough 
to empty his six-shooter into me. But you boys ought to know what 
you’ve got mixed up with. That’s why I’m tellin’ you this. The fact 
is — ” Then he dropped his voice cautiously and began again: “The 
fact is, about half the cattle in this drove have been stole.” 

“What!” Frank burst out, in startled tones. 

“Hush! Not so loud,” cautioned Newt. 

“How can that be?” I questioned. “We’ve seen him buy at least 
two-thirds of the drove — seen it with our own eyes.” 

“Of course you have. That’s one thing you’re here for — to see 
Hart buy these cattle, and to witness his bills of sale. Hart don’t 
steal cattle himself, or anything else — not Hart. He’s altogether too 
sharp for that. He buys the cattle and pays for ’em. And he takes 
a bill of sale for every hoof that comes into this drove, too.” 

“Yes, and he does more than that,” I hastened to say. “Unless 
the man that wants to sell says he has raised the animal, or has 


92 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


owned it for a year or two, Hart always demands to see his bill of 
sale for it. I never saw a more cautious man.” 

“Oh yes, he’s as cautious as they make ’em, that Jasper Hart — 
and as sly. Did you ever see a trade spoilt because the owner couldn’t 
fish up a bill of sale? No, you never did; and what’s more, you never 
will. Anybody can write a bill of sale, and anybody can sign one. 
But these fellows that drive to ’im — where do they find their cattle? 
Why, wherever they happen onto ’em, of course — on the prairie, or 
in the woods, or anywhere else. Hain’t you noticed how ga’nt some 
of the animals look? What could make cattle look ga’nt this time 3f 
the year, when there’s a world of grass everywhere?” 

“Well, what could?” Frank put the question. 

“Nothin’ in the world but hard drivin’. But Hart don’t_ see that. 
He shuts his eyes. If he got arrested for stealin’ any particular an- 
imal, he could prove p’int-blank that he bought it and paid for it. 
Part of the cattle he does buy from their owners, of course; and he 
pays a fair price for ’em, too. But fully as many more he buys from 
the thieves. And he gets ’em for about half what they’re worth, be- 
cause they’ve been rounded up between two days. Hain’t you noticed 
the big difference in prices?” 

“Yes, I have,” was my reply. “But I’d never thought much about 
it before. How long have you been with him. Newt?” 

“Nearly a year. This is the third cattle-buyin’ trip I’ve made from 
the ranch.” 

“And have you understood all the time that he was carrying on 
crooked business?” Frank wanted to know, suspiciously. 

“Of course not. For a good while I thought everything was as 
straight as a square. Then I sort of begun to smell a mouse. And 
at last it got through my thick head that the main part of the bus- 
iness was crooked. I know that well enough now, but I couldn’t prove 
it. In fact, I don’t know that I could go into court and swear that 
I’ve ever seen a solitary thing that the law could get a hold of. For 
I never- have. I’ve never been asked to do any dirty work, and I’ve 
never seen any of it done — openly.” 

“Couldn’t you be mistaken about there being any dirty work?” I 
questioned him. 

“Yes, I could be, but I’m not. For a good while I tried to persuade 
myself that I was — just as long as I could. I’ve no more doubt that 
I’m right than I have that the sun will rise tomorrow mornin’. That’s 
why I advised you boys to go back home.” 

“Your advice was very good, and we thank you for it,” Frank as- 
sured him. “But wouldn’t it be just as good for yourself as for us?” 

“Don’t know but what it would.” 

“If you know Hart to be a receiver of stolen property, I don’t un- 
derstand how you can stay with him,” said I. “We’re not going to 
hang around this outfit a minute longer than we can get away.” 

“That’s a sensible decision,” declared Newt. “As for me, there’s 
good reasons why I shouldn’t cut loose from this layout just yet 
a while. One of ’em is: I promised Hart to stick to ’im till the end 
of this trip. If I was to run off and leave ’im where we are now, 
he’d be mad as blazes — mad enough to plug me with lead, I guess. 
He has stuck lead into two or three men already, I’ve heard tell. 
Maybe they needed all they got though.” 

“He has! So that’s the kind of fellow we’ve run up against, is it?” 
Frank remarked, thoughtfully. 

Soon Newt started back to the camp, and Frank and I followed, 
more slowly. 

“I’m afraid we’ve got ourselves into a ticklish place,” my companion 
in trouble remarked. 

“Ticklish or what not, we’ve got to crawl out of it right away,” I 


A C n o O K E D TRAIL 


93 


answered. “That is, if it^s as bad as Newt says. In fact, we’ve 
got to get out of it anyhow.” 

“That’s right. I won’t touch stolen property with a thirty-foot pole. 
But if it was an up-hill job to tell Hart before, when we thought him 
an honest man, what is it now, after we’ve just learned that — after 
we’ve just learned what we have?” 

“Yes, I know. But Newt may be mistaken, or partly mistaken. 
He’s sore at Hart now, and he won’t believe anything good about 
him. But it’s time for us to get our cattle and start home anyway, 
and we niight as well take the bull by the horns at once.” 

“I’m with you there, Travis. So let’s fix a time for our talk with 
Hart, and have the matter over with, come what will.” 

“All right. Tonight after supper — how will that do?” 

“Tonight after supper wilTsuit me. And tonight after supper it 
shall be. Don’t forget; no flinching for us this time. We’ve dodged 
and flinched too much already.” 

We had fully made up our minds, and would doubtless have carried 
out our purpose to have the interview, much as we dreaded it. But 
before the appointed hour, something occurred which we had not 
foreseen — something that changed our plans. 

Our talk with Newt Lindsay took place at noon. An hour or so 
later, but before we had begun the afternoon drive, two horsemen ap- 
peared suddenly at our camp, bursting out of the brush behind us 
Plainly they had been riding hard. Reining up, they swept our 
numerous, grazing drove with their eyes, and presently grew much 
excited. 

“What are you doin’ with my cattle in that herd?” one of them de- 
manded, angrily. In fact, he almost shouted it. “Nice gang of 
thieves, you air!” 

Hart and all the cowboys except one of the Mexicans, Jose bj 
name, and Prank and me, had saddled their horses and were just 
mounting, ready for another buying trip. Hart was still on the 
ground, but he now leaped into the saddle, his face aflame. 

“I’ve paid good money for every hoof in that drove; and what’s 
more, I’ve got the paper to show for it,” he replied, with suppressed 
but very evident anger. To me he looked decidedly dangerous. 

“I don’t care a rip what you’ve paid or what you hain’t paid!” the 
irate settler shouted. “What I know is, I count five cattle of mine 
in that herd, and I’m goin’ to have ’em!” 

“Where’s your proof?” demanded the ranchman, with more self- 
control than I had thought him capable of. But a glance at his face 
told me that it was the self-control of a thunderstorm not quite ready 
to burst. 

“Proof!” fairly yelled the settler, in a fury. “What do I care 
about proof? Don’t I see my own cattle with my own eyes? What 
better proof do I want?” 

“Do you take me for a fool — for a big enough fool to hand over 
cattle to every sharp that bobs up and lays claim to ’em?” demanded 
Hart, sarcastically. “I’ve got good, solid proof that says they’re mine. 
If you’ve got better proof that they belong to you, trot it out!” 

“Don’t I know my own cattle? Do I have to ask any cattle-thief 
what I can do with what’s mine?” blustered the settler, with many 
savage oaths. 

“Bet your bottom dollar we don’t!” answered the other settler. 
“Our cattle are in that herd, and we’re goin’ to have ’em here and 
now. And we’ll let daylight shine clear through the first fool that 
tries to head us off!” 

“That we will!” shouted his companion. And they both started to 
spur right into the drove. 

Ame Watson and Ben Dankens were sitting on their horses, but a 


94 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


few yards from Hart. I saw him give them a sign. And scarcely 
had the settlers started toward the cattle when three six-shooters 
came out of three holsters and covered them. 

“Hold up there! Un with your hands, both of you!” ordered Hart, 
so sternly, threateningly, that the angry pair stopped short. Turn- 
ing, they found themselves facing the three cocked weapons. 

Both men were armed, and I have never doubted that they would 
have made a desperate fight if given half a chance. But, not fore- 
seeing what would happen, they had allowed themselves to be caught 
off their guard. So their hands went up, though reluctantly. 

Ben Dankens rode near and relieved one of the men of his six- 
shooter, while Hart himself disarmed the other man. Hart looked 
furious. Suddenly he thrust his own cocked six-shooter against the 
breast of the man who had blustered so much. 

“Do you think you own any cattle in this layout?” he demanded, 
fiercely. Something in the way he hissed the words reminded me of 
an enraged snake about to strike. 

The blusterer — a blusterer no longer — turned an ashen gray under 
his coat of tan. For several moments he seemed unable to speak, 
and I half expected to hear the six-shooter speak for him. 

“I’m waivin’ all claims,” he finally answered, half doggedly, though 
the quaver in his voice told that he fully realized how close to death’s 
door he was standing. 

“Do you think you can take the road you came, and travel it till 
sundown without pullin’ a rein?” 

“If I git a chanct I can.” 

Hart now turned his pistol toward the other man, and propounded 
similar questions. This fellow was worse frightened than his blus- 
tering companion. He looked almost ghastly, and his words seemed 
to stick in his throat. But he promised everything demanded of him 
■ — would have promised much more, doubtless. And no one hearing 
him could have doubted that, just then at least, he fully intended to 
abide by his promise. 

“Then go! Vamoose! Ride for your lives!” roared Hart. “And 
don’t let me ketch you in a hundred miles of this outfit again, or I’ll — ” 
He added a lengthy string of profane threats. 

Instantly the two settlers wheeled their horses and dashed back the 
road at a gallop. Having feared a tragedy, I was wonderfully re- 
lieved to see them escape unharmed. We watched them till they had 
disappeared in the windings of the brush-bordered road. But just as 
they were disappearing, the blusterer could not resist the temptation 
to look back and shout: 

“We’ll meet some other day!” 

Promptly Hart spurred after him, the six-shooter still in his hand. 

“The crazy wind-bag! Why didn’t he keep his big mouth shut?” 
muttered Newt to me. 

I was much frightened for the man. But Hart followed only a 
hundred or two yards, then fired two shots, probably over their heads, 
and turned back. 

“The last we’ll see of that pair of scared rabbits,” he remarked 
as he cantered up to us, laughing a wicked laugh. 

“I wouldn’t be too almighty shore about that. Hart,” remarked Ben. 
“They’re goin’ to make trouble for us if they can. And I ruther 
guess they can.” 

Hart looked thoughtful for a few moments, then laughed again, a 
reckless, defiant laugh. 

“Oh well, let ’em try it if they want to! We’ll give ’em as good 
as they send! Well, time for us to be on the jump, boys. The rest 
of you let the cattle graze an hour or so longer, then round up and 
drive on.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


PREPARATIONS TO ESCAPE. 

S OON after Hart and his four cowboys had ridden away Frank, 
giving me a significant look, sauntered off from the camp to- 
ward a little grove. I soon followed him. When we were be- 
yond the hearing of Jose the Mexican and Sam the cook, who were 
playing mumblety-peg, I turned and said: 

^‘Well, what do you think now?” 

“I think — I think — oh, I donT know what I do think!” he exclaimed, 
impatiently. “But I know we don’t want to have any talk with Hart.” 
“Why not?” 

“Because — well, I don’t care to leave this camp like those two fel- 
lows left it today. Do you?” 

“Would it be as bad as that with us, do you think?” 

“It might be worse, for all I know. Did you see how deathly pale 
those men turned?” 

“Yes. I want to dodge out of all such experiences as that. The 
one we went through was bad enough. This must have been a hun- 
dred times worse. But if we don’t talk with Hart what can we do? 
I heard him say we ought to strike the Fort Concho trail before to- 
morrow night. We’ve got to do something and do it quick.” 

“That’s right. We’ve got to do something, and do it quick,” re- 
peated Frank, thoughtfully. 

“There are two things already nailed down hard,” I went on. “One 
is that we don’t dare hang around this outfit more than a few hours 
longer; and the other, that we can’t go home without those cattle.” 

Frank nodded. “So it seems that the only road left open for us 
is to slip our cattle out the first chance we get, then strike the trail 
for home and travel it at a hot gait.” 

“Yes, that’s the only thing we can do. Now the question is: When 
shall we make the start?” 

“Let’s say tomorrow after dinner or tomorrow night.” 

“Why not today or tonight, Frank?” 

“Well, we might go tonight. But tomorrow night will be better, 
because we’ll be on that main-traveled road, the Fort Concho trail, 
and we won’t stand much chance of getting lost. And we ought to 
have another talk with Newt. He’s as sour as vinegar at Hart just 
now, and maybe he’ll lend us a hand in slipping our cattle out.” 
“Can we trust him?” 

“I don’t see why we shouldn’t.” 

“You think he won’t betray us to Hart?” 

“Not while he’s as sore as he was at noon. He’d see Hart hung 
higher than Haman before he’d open his mouth to him.” 

“But he may thaw into a better humor by night. Hart’s pretty 
smooth at blarneying people after he walks over them.” 

“Not so soon, I guess. But we can feel of Newt first, and make 
sure as to how he stands. If he has still got his teeth on edge we’d 
better let him into our secret, and then ask his advice and get him 
to help us if we can.” 

This I agreed to. Our conversation now turned to the exciting 
event we had just witnessed. Our sympathies went out largely to- 


96 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


ward the two men; for we ourselves had run the gauntlet of a similar 
experience. If they had acted less foolishly we should have sympa- 
thized with them more. 

Soon after the time drew near to get the cattle in motion, and we 
sauntered back to the camp. 

After supper that same day Frank and I noticed Newt lariating a 
horse a hundred yards or so from the camp, and strolled out in that 
direction. 

“Well, what’s your opinion now, boys?” was the question that 
greeted us as we walked up to him. “Was I right or not right?” 

“Would you say they were frauds — those fellows?” I inquired. 

“No, I don’t — not a bit of it. They just saw their cattle in the 
drove and got mad about it, as any other man would that had any 
spunk. And if all the real owners. of these cattle happened along 
about the same time — well, let me be a long ways from here before 
that comes to pass. This particular part of the country will be red- 
hot. What have you boys concluded to do?” 

“That’s what we find hard to decide,” answered Frank. 

“Well, you know your own business, of course. But if you’re wise 
you’ll be mighty shy of this outfit from now on. And you won’t wait 
a minute longer than you have to. We’re standin’ right square on 
top of a powder-mine.” 

“How’s that?” inquired Frank. 

“Why, nine chances out of ten them two fellows will come back. 
And they won’t come by themselves, neither. That’s why I advise 
you boys to make yourselves scarce.” 

“Will it be any more dangerous for us than for you?” 

. “Not a particle. But I’m thinkin’ the hardest kind of lightin’ out 
myself.” 

“When?” 

“Right away. Tonight, maybe. I don’t know for certain.” 

“But you were going to stick to Hart till you got back to his ranch,” 
I reminded him. 

“I did fully intend to. I told ’im he could count on me for the 
round trip, and I don’t like to bust open a promise. But that little 
fracas on the road today makes me skittish. I think lots of my neck. 
I never could dance on a floor, and I’d ruther not try it on air.” 

“Do you think — ” I began, startled. 

“I don’t think, I know,” Newt interrupted me. “Hart believes he 
give them blowhards such a scare that they’ll never stop runnin’. 
But I don’t believe any such stuif — not a word of it. Out in this 
part of the country it’s the easiest thing in the world to get help to 
swing up a horse-thief or a cattle-thief. Ain’t a settler this side of 
the Coloraydo that won’t bounce up in the middle of a meal or in 
the middle of the night to attend to a pleasant little matter of that 
kind. And most of ’em will thank you for the chance. And when 
they do once get under full swing, they’ll make a clean sweep of this 
layout. We’ll all look alike to them — innocent and guilty on the same 
limb.” 

This was alarming. I looked at Frank and Frank at me. Neither 
of us had thought of such a peril before. 

“But won’t they be more likely to come with the sheriff?” I want- 
ed to know. 

“No sheriff for them two fellows,” replied Newt. “They’re too 
boilin’ mad. If Hart had let ’em off easier, they might have struck 
for the county seat. But now they’ll come back with a rope. And 
they’ll bring men a plenty to pull it too.” 

“When did you say you expected to go?” It was Frank’s question. 

“I’ve not quite decided about that. I’d like to get away the first 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


97 


good chance; tonight if I can slip out. But not later than tomorrow 
night or the night after. This trouble won’t be apt to hold oif more 
than two or three days. I tried to scare up Hart while we were out 
today, but he’s not easy to scare. Said he was all right and laughed 
at me. He as good as told me to mind my own business. And that’s 
just what I’ll do, I guess. He thinks he’s got things fixed so’s nobody 
cain’t hurt ’im. But when forty or fifty fellows that have lost cattle 
get into one gang, and find all their stolen stock in this one drove, 
they won’t take the trouble to open that tin-box and read all them 
bill of sales. Not much they won’t. They’ll be too busy, and in too 
big a hurry.” 

“Wait a minute. Newt,” said Frank, as he motioned to me. 

We walked off a few yards, talking together in low tones. Soon 
we had decided to tell Newt exactly how we came to be here. 

So we went back to him; and while the three of us strolled to- 
gether among the scattering mesquites, we narrated the whole story. 
He listened in astonished silence. 

“And so you boys own an interest in this outfit too, do you?” he 
exclaimed, as soon as we had- concluded. “Well, the chances are 
you’ll have worlds of trouble gettin’ your cattle away. Hart’s not a 
safe man to fool with.” 

“What would he do if we went to him and told him the straight 
of the matter?” I wanted to know. 

“Well, you saw what he did today. First thing, he’d call for your 
proof. Then, if you didn’t trot out some bill of sales, he’d want to 
know why you’d waited all these weeks to put in your claims. By 
that time he’d be worked up like a rattler after you’ve poked him 
with a stick. And the chances are that he’d punch you with his six- 
shooter, like he did them chaps today, and order you to make tracks.” 

“None of that kind of thing for me, if you please,” remarked Frank, 
drawing up his shoulders shiveringly. 

“And after you did that, if you went and got an officer to arrest 
’im,” Newt went on, “there’d be an examinin’ trial before some jus- 
tice of the peace. You couldn’t prove that the cattle belonged to you, 
I guess; but Hart would bring up his bill of sales, describin’ every 
cow-brute of ’em to a hair. And he could call witnesses, too. If he 
put me on the stand I’d have to swear straight up and down that I 
saw ’im buy that spotted bell-steer from another drove. And there 
was other people that saw it, too — people not connected with any 
cattle-buyin’ outfit. So the upshot of the matter would be that the 
squire would release Hart and turn the cattle over to him. Of course 
if you had a lawyer he might fix things so as to hold the cattle till 
you could bring on your witnesses. But that would take lots of time 
and trouble, and some expense. So that’s all the satisfaction you 
could figger on for callin’ in the sheriff.” 

“We hadn’t thought of calling in the sheriff,” I assured him. “We 
tried that over east of the river, and got more than we wanted of it.” 

“And we don’t want to have to bring our friends all the way out 
here, either,” said Frank. “We’re two hundred miles or so from 
home, and our fathers and neighbors have got too much on their 
hands to be making long trips across the country to identify a few 
cattle.” 

“Then I’d advise you to strike a trot for home and let the cattle 
alone,” Newt answered. “They’re not worth the risk you’ll have 
to run to get ’em away.” 

At the beginning of my trip in pursuit of Lep I might have been 
tempted to take this advice under the present or similar circum- 
stances. But the obstacles already overcome had hardened my will 


98 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


and developed my self-reliance. And at least some little tinge of 
iron had entered into my soul. 

“Not a step do I go without that ox,” I announced. “Fll track him 
all the rest of my days, and follow him to the ends of the earth, or 
I’ll drive him home. I’m not going to waste weeks and weeks, and 
ride over half the State of Texas, and then sneak back to the Little 
Pecan and tell father and everybody that I found Lep, but couldn’t 
get possession of him. No, sirree! Not while I’m able to wag I 
won’t. When I go home that ox goes with me if he’s alive. And if 
he’s dead, his hide and horns must go to prove it. No two ways 
about that.” 

Lindsay stood gazing at a near-by hill, already growing dim and 
shadowy in the thickening dusk. He was weighing the matter. 

“Then there’s only one gate open that I can think of,” he said at 
length. “You’ll have to slip your cattle out of the herd the first 
chance you get, and run ’em off. • BuL^the Lord have mercy on your 
souls if Hart ketches you at it. You can take Hart’s money or his 
clothes, and he won’t fret so overly much. With all his meanness 
he’s not a stingy man. But his touchy spot’s a cow-brute. Just lay 
a finger on one cow or calf or yearlin’ that belongs to him, and he’ll 
be on top of you like a thousand catamounts.” 

“We’ve already made up our minds to take that risk. Newt,” I 
hastened to say. “When do you think we’ll have the best show to 
escape — to get away safely?” • 

“You ought to go tonight, by all means,” he replied. “The sooner 
you put miles between you and this outfit the safer you’ll be. But 
it might be all right to wait till tomorrow night.” 

“I’ve been thinking that possibly we might manage to drop our 
cattle by the roadside as we drive along tomorrow,” suggested I. 
“Later we could slip away from the drove, and then come back and 
pick them up.” 

“We’d have to anchor Lep to something,” put in Frank. “If we 
didn’t, we’d never find hair or hide of him. He’s too slippery. He’s 
as bad as an eel.” 

“Yes, we could hide him in the brush somewhere till we could come 
back for him,” I assented. “The other two would stay with him, 
I’ve no doubt. Of course we’d have to stuff his bell, or take it off.” 

“That plan might *work out all right but for one thing, boys,” said 
Newt. “And I don’t believe you can dodge round that. Hart would 
be apt to miss that spotted steer as soon as he got back and run his 
eye over the drove. And if he didn’t miss the steer himself, he’d 
be dead certain to miss that bell, first thing. Then there’d be trouble 
right quick.” 

“We could drop out pretty soon after we got our cattle out,” sug- 
gested Frank. “If Jose was with us he’d keep the cattle moving, I 
guess. If he couldn’t he could round them up and hold them till the 
other boys and Hart got back.” 

“No, that wouldn’t work at all,” Newt decided. “That way you 
wouldn’t get more than an hour’s start of Hart, and he’d run onto 
you before sundown. And then woe to you! What you need is a 
good, long start, before Hart finds out you’re gone. A whole night 
you ought to have; but half the night might answer. Night-time’s 
better than day-time, too, because nobody will be apt to see you in 
the dark. If you can once get twenty or thirty miles ahead, you 
oughtn’t to have much trouble givin’ ’im the slip. You mustn’t let 
Hart overtake you. He’s a dangerous fellow when he gets worked 
up. No tollin’ what he would do. And a dead man or two ain’t no 
great matter out in this wild country.” 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


99 


‘‘When do you think will be the best time to start, Newt?” I in- 
quired. ^ 

“Well, you cain’t well get matters in shape for tonight; and you’d 
better set tomorrow night, and have everything fixed by that time, 
so your whole plan will slide through like it was greased. It won’t 
be any joke if you get tripped up.” 

We discussed the matter in all its details as we strolled back to- 
ward the camp. Newt entered into our plans as heartily as we did. 
Finally, when in sight of the wagon, he announced: 

“Boys, I’ve been figgerin’ on cuttin’ loose from this layout sooner 
or later, and now will be as good a time as I’m likely to run across. 
If I wait much longer I’m liable to need somebody to cut me loose — 
from a limb. By goin’ when you do maybe I can help you through 
the hardest places. So we’ll all light out together.” 

LOfC. 


. >‘V 




CHAPTER XIX. 


BETRAYED BY A BELL. 

W HEN Newt Lindsay made known his intention to go with us, 
a burden seemed lifted from Frank’s shoulders and mine. 
Newt was a shrewd, clear-headed fellow, and our plans would 
be far less likely to come to g:rief with his help than without it. 

As we entered the camp Ame and Ben, I noticed, were talking se- 
riously to Hart. Only a few words I overheard; but from those I 
easily understood that they were warning him of danger from vig- 
ilants. Hart laughed at them and rallied them on their timidity. If 
he himself felt the slightest fear, he concealed it behind a mask of 
cheerfulness. 

For various reasons I slept but lightly that night. The strange, 
unenviable situation I found myself in, and the difficult and perhaps 
dangerous venture ahead o;f us, seemed to have frightened sleep from 
me. And besides, what Newt and the other cowboys had said about 
our peril from a mob had left me in an excitable frame of mind. 

Newt was of the opinion that there would be little danger for a day 
or two, but I was already alarmed. If those two men could gather 
a crowd at all, it seemed to me that they were as likely to fall upon 
us tonight as later. The passing of horsemen along the road, which 
was only a few hundred yards from our camp, was sufficient to set 
my heart to thumping fast till the hoof -beats had died away. Frank 
was by nature less excitable than I; but more than once during the 
night I saw him rise to his elbow to listen, when any suspicious 
sound was in the air. And Newt was almost as wakeful and restless. 

Once or twice only, I think, did I drop into a light slumber during 
the early hours of the night. And I was rather relieved than other- 
wise when my time came to turn out and go on guard. 

As usual Frank and I were standing guard together. The cattle 
were all lying comfortably in the grass, and there was little for 
us to do. Our horses we saddled and bridled for emergencies. But 
we left them to graze, while we ourselves strolled about on foot, 
keeping an eye on the prostrate drove. 

Now we had a good opportunity to talk over, and over and over, 
all the details of our proposed escape. Both of us heartily disliked 
the secret character of what we were about to do. For I believed 
then, as I know now, that a thing that must be done under cover of 
darkness is usually far better left undone. But there are exceptions 
even to that rule. And the very peculiar situation we now found our- 
selves in, and the character of the man we had to deal with, seem- 
ed to make it necessary to do as we had planned to do. 

While we were talking over the matter, one conclusion that forced 
itself upon us surprised us not a little, and very unpleasantly, too. 

In our very first conversation with Hart he had. mentioned having 
paid twenty dollars for Lep. While looking, over the bills of sale in 
the tin box I had found written evidence that this was true; and I 
had also learned that he had spent six dollars for Frank’s yearling 
steer and eight dollars for the two-year-old heifer. This made a 
total cost to him of thirty-four dollars for our three animals. 

While our own title to the cattle was indisputable, and we were 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


101 


in no sense responsible for what Hart had done, to drive them away 
as we expected to do, without letting him know anything about it, 
seemed very much like taking something of value from him for noth- 
ing. In other words it was too much like stealing. 

^ We fought against it as long as possible ; but gradually the con- 
viction took fast hold of us that, before we could drive off our cat- 
tle under cover of night, we must first pay back the thirty-four dol- 
lars that Hart had spent for them. 

“I don’t want to do it at all,” grumbled Frank, kicking resentfully at 
an inoffensive weed. “It hurts like pulling eye-teeth to pay for 
something you’re already the owner of. And it’s more than half 
what they’re worth, too. Still, we can’t afford to do anything that 
seems even half-way akin to stealing ; so it looks like we’re bound 
to fork over our hard-earned cash.” 

“Yes, our hard-earned cash,” I repeated, regretfully, half sadly. 
“I’d hoped to get home with at least a few dollars in my pocket, to 
pay for all the time I’ve lost from work. But this will about clean 
me up. I shall have to go back with my pockets as empty as they 
were the day I started.” 

“Pretty hard luck,” admitted Frank. But there was no escape 
from it. 

Fortunately we had spent very little, either on the road or in San 
Antonio; and the money we had earned by grubbing, added to what 
Hart had already paid us and what he still owed us, would make the 
required amount and a few dollars over. Perhaps, by close economy, 
we might have enough left to get home on. 

Next morning when we confided to Newt that we proposed to re- 
pay Hart, he laughed at us at first, then tried to argue us out of 
it. But, finding that we had fully made up our minds, he dismissed 
the subject by saying: 

“Well, if you’ve got more cash than you want to pack around with 
you, I s’pose that’s as good a way to lighten your loads as any.” 

“We’re not paying it to lighten our loads; its to lighten our con- 
sciences,” I assured him. 

While in camp at noon Frank and I wrote a letter to Hart, setting 
forth all the facts in the case, and explaining why we were leaving 
him secretly. We assured him that we had fully intended to tell him 
all this by word of mouth instead of writing it; but that after seeing 
how he treated people who laid claim to cattle in his drove we pre- 
ferred to get ours out in some less unpleasant way. 

This letter we enclosed in an env' ’ope addressed to Hart; and with 
it we enclosed all the money due him for the three cattle after deduct- 
ing what he still owed us. The letter we proposed to leave in the 
tin-box, on top of all the other papers, where the ranchman could 
not fail to find it. 

Some time during the afternoon drive we came to a well-beaten 
road which, we were told, was the Fort Concho trail. Now we set 
our faces toward the fort. The cattle-buying circuit, which had 
covered not less than two hundred and fifty miles, and occupied be- 
tween two and three weeks, had at last come to an end. 

The country passed over during the day had been more or less 
broken, and as night came on we found ourselves among some brush- 
covered hills. Just at the time to camp, our road was running be- 
tween a brushy hill on our north side and a pretty creek, the banks 
of the creek overgrown with tall timber. 

On coming to a place where the stream was passable, we crossed 
the cattle over. Then, driving down a narrow prairie valley, we 
went into camp between the timber of the stream and the foot of 
another steep, brush-covered hill on the south. 


102 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


We three conspirators, knowing what we had to do that night, 
were relieved to see that camp itself — the place where the wagon 
would stand and the camp-fire be kindled — was among the scattering 
bushes and thickets. We were also well pleased to note that the 
cattle had been stopped above the camp, nearer the point where we 
had forded the creek. 

After supper, which was eaten at dusk, our party sat together on 
the grass near the wagon, some of the men smoking pipes, and the 
two Mexicans rolling and smoking corn-shuck cigarettes. There was 
but little conversation. Hart, with all his faults, never touched to- 
bacco. And he often had sarcastic things to say of those who did. 
jEe was usually cheerful and rather talkative. But tonight he sat 
in moody silence. Evidently there was something serious on his 
mind. 

I was afraid he would ask Frank or me what we were going to 
do, now that the outfit was moving toward his ranch again. ^ But 
he did not. He had already told us that we could go on with him if 
we chose. And perhaps he was taking it for granted that we would 
go. Under diiferent circumstances we should have been glad ’to make 
the trip. 

When bed-time came, which was never long after dark, Frank, 
remarking that he would like a place where the grass was thicker, 
went off a few yards from the others and there made his bed. I fol- 
lowed him; for we always slept together. Before spreading down 
our blankets we went to the wagon for our slickers to put under them. 
While there I deposited our letter to Hart in the tin-box; and Frank 
slipped out his saddle-bags. So far as our few belongings were con- 
cerned we were now ready for our venture. 

Before lying down Hart, as his custom was, had assigned each of 
us his time for going on guard. We divided the night into four 
watches, and two men were always on duty together. But the same 
men seldom had the same watch two nights running. 

For tonight Ame Watson and Ben Dankens would take the first 
watch, ending about ten o’clock. Newt Lindsay and Jose, one of the 
Mexicans, would have the second, ending about midnight. Frank and 
I would follow, from midnight till half past two. Then Hart and 
the other Mexican would go on duty till daylight. 

That was the night’s program as announced by Hart. In some re- 
spects it was very satisfactory to us; in other respects very unsat- 
isfactory. As we dared not try to slip our cattle out of the herd 
except when Frank and I were on guard, we should have preferred 
to take the first watch ourselves, that we might steal away earlier 
in the night. But as we had never before objected to Hart’s assign- 
ments, we were afraid to object now, lest we excite suspicion. 

However, there were advantages in the present arrangement. If 
we were to get away earlier in the night, the very failure to change 
the guards would be likely to arouse our wakeful employer, and our 
escape would soon be known. But as our watch would not end till 
after two o’clock, we were hopeful that Hart and evervbody else 
might sleep on peacefully till morning, thus giving us a start of four 
or five hours. In that time we expected to get miles away — so many 
miles that Hart would never be able to find us. That is, if he made 
any determined attempt, as Newt was positive he would. 

For fear of a stampede or other trouble, those of us on guard al- 
ways kept our horses saddled while we were up. Sometimes we 
mounted and rode slowly round and round the cattle. But as no one 
wanted his horse to stand under the saddle all night long, saddles 
were frequently brought in and taken out. This custom would en- 
able us to saddle our horses, when the time came, without arousing 
suspicion. 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


103 


Before going to bed I walked down to where my pony was lariated, 
to see that he had not wound up his rope. And I also took a stroll 
around the cattle. Not a single member of the drove of six hundred 
and ^ more was on ^ foot. There was a few-days-old moon, and by 
its light_ I could easily distinguish Lep, lying out toward the center 
of the dim drove. Frank’s two animals, I was careful to notice, lay 
not far from Lep. Their attachment to the big fellow, which had 
already led them many a long, weary mile from home, was still un- 
broken. 

Immediately after supper we three conspirators had sauntered 
away from the camp and reviewed our plans from first to last. There 
seemed no chance for a failure. And yet I was anxious and nervous, 
and lay so long thinking over our prospective flight that I half be- 
lieved I should not fall asleep. But at last I did; though it seemed 
only a few minutes till Newt was shaking me and saying, quietly: 

“Your time to turn out now.” 

Quickly I sat up, very wide awake. Frank was already pulling on 
his boots. Soon we were ready. Taking up our saddles and blankets 
and the few other things, we started for our horses. Vic, always 
ready to go, was off ahead of us. 

Even before we left the camp Jose, the Mexican that had been 
on guard with Newt, had come in and rolled himself in his blankets. 

But Newt had gone back to his horse; and while we were girting 
on our saddles he joined us. 

The moon had set long ago. And even without the screening bush- 
es around the wagon, there was not light enough for our movements 
to be seen from the camp. 

When Dick had been saddled, and my blanket and slicker tied on 
behind the saddle, I took off my lariat, and handed my bridle-rein to 
Newt. Frank also gave his horse into Newt’s care. Then Frank 
and I advanced cautiously into the herd, toward the spot where Lep’s 
figure could now be dimly made out. I was whistling softly, and 
Frank was humming a tune, to keep from frightening the animals 
as we picked our way among them. 

We reached Lep safely. After speaking to him, and rubbing his 
back a few strokes, I dropped down by his head and stuffed his big 
bell as full of grass as I could cram it. Then I knotted the lariat 
around his head, just under his horns. He would lead like a horse. 

Now I punched him up. He rose with a great sigh at being dis- 
turbed, which sounded loud to me. However, there were sighing and 
puffing all around us, as the grass-distended animals lay at ease in 
the grass, hundreds of jaws grinding away busily on hundreds of 
cuds, like so many grass-mills. 

Slowly, cautiously I led Lep out, picking an open way among the 
recumbent animals. Frank came close behind, driving his yearling 
and his two-year-old. I was somewhat afraid of frightening the 
herd, but they were farm-animals rather than range-stock, and not 
easy to stampede. And besides they had been driven a good many 
miles since morning and were pretty tired. 

At length we were safely clear of the herd, and were moving up 
the valley. Newt came close behind Frank, leading our three horses. 
We followed along the edge of the timber that fringed the stream 
till we arrived at the crossing-place. The water here was rippling 
over a rocky shoal, filling the still night with its soft murmurings. 
But the trampling of our cattle on the rocks sounded frightfully loud 
in my ears as we crossed. However, we were a few hundred yards 
above the camp now, and the danger of discovery was not great. 

But there would soon be far more danger. The road we must fol- 
low led down the creek; and while the timbered banks would hide us 


104 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


completely, we must pass within thirty or forty yards of the camp. 
The hill on the north would hem us in, being both too brushy and 
too steep for our cattle and horses to climb. 

As we came opposite to where the camp was known to be I ad- 
vanced slowly and cautiously. But in spite of that, how heavily our 
half-dozen animals seemed to tread! Hart was a light sleeper, as 
I well knew. Little could go on in the vicinity of the camp that he 
was not aware of. I listened intently, anxiously for any sound over 
there, but none came. My hope was that if he did hear us passing, 
he would mistake us for either loose animals or travelers. 

Then, just as it appeared that we were to get safely away, some- 
thing happened that I had not for a moment foreseen. 

Even now I have no doubt that I had stuffed, crammed, wedged, 
driven the grass into that bell so tightly that it could not have come 
out of itself. But in my zeal to do a thorough job, I must have filled 
the bell too full — so full that some of the grass stuck out below. Frank 
afterwards informed me that he thought he had seen his red yearling, 
which was walking by Lep’s side, reach his nose under as if smelling 
the bell. Doubtless the young steer was nibbling at the grass. 

However the disaster came about, there suddenly pealed forth on 
the motionless night-air the deep tones of that big bell! Indeed, so 
frightfully loud did it boom out in my ears, that it could scarcely 
have crashed through the stillness more violently if it had weighed 
a ton and hung in a belfry. 


CHAPTER XX. 


“UP WITH YOUR HANDS THERE!’’ 

S CARCELY had Lep’s bell begun to sound forth its treacherous 
peals, betraying our escape, when I, after recovering from my 
first consternation, wheeled and made a grab at it. So sud- 
denly and savagely did I lunge toward him that Lep, thinking himself 
the victim of a violent assault, sprang back and tried to run away, 
thereby making the bell ring more loudly. 

But I still held the rope, and in spite of his struggles I had quickly 
gripped the bell and choked off its frightful voice. Not, however, till 
the whole valley had been set a-ringing. 

“Do stop that awful thing!” Newt said, half in a whisper, half 
aloud. 

“I’ve got it stopped,” I told him. I had hold of the bell-clapper, 
and in my excited wrath was trying to tear it out of the bell — a noisy, 
blabbing tongue out of a traitorous mouth. 

But it was too strong for me. Then I jerked a handkerchief from 
my neck, double-knotted it around the big-ended clapper, and tied .it 
hard and fast to the collar above. The bell was now fastened 
mouth up. 

All this was done hastily. But before it was finished we heard 
voices in the camp, which told us that our escape, or at least the es- 
cape of some cattle, had been discovered. Presently Hart commenc- 
ed calling — calling first Frank and then me. Of course we did not 
answer. Later he shouted for Newt, loudly and angrily, till the 
whole valley rang and echoed. By this time he was in a rage, and 
oaths were beginning to fiy. Then he ordered the other hands to get 
out and saddle their horses as quickly as possible. 

We had fully expected to obtain a start of four or five hours before 
our escape became known. But now it was discovered, and we were 
not yet a stone’s throw from the camp. A serious situation for us, 
surely. 

Already we were moving on. We could hear Hart talking — talking 
at the top of his voice. And he was certainly in a fury. We could 
scarcely blame him for being angry; but we were not quite prepared 
for one of his threats. 

“We’ll follow the sneakin’ scoundrels,” he fairly shouted, “and 
where we overtake ’em, there we leave ’em!” And then he poured 
forth such a torrent of abuse and profanity as I had. never heard 
flow from his lips. 

Newt now called a halt. “They’ll soon be after us, boys,” he said, 
“and we’ve got to ride and ride fast. Let’s drop the cattle right here.” 

But my determination not to return home without Lep had been 
growing too long and taken too deep root to be pulled up so easily. 

“Look here, Newt,” I said, “we’ve been on the track of these cattle 
too many weeks to run off and leave them the first minute we get 
them into our own hands. Dark as the night is now, we can escape 
with them about as well as without them.” 

“That’s right,” endorsed Frank. “We don’t have to risk everything 
on speed If the worst comes, we can drive into the brush and dodge 
and hide. This country was made on purpose for that.” 


106 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


Seeing that our heads were set, Newt gave in to us, though very 
reluctantly. After a few words together, we agreed upon a plan of 
action. I now sprang into my saddle, still holding the rope that was 
around Lep’s horns. The others mounted also, and away we went, I 
leading and they driving. Lep held back lazily at first, but Frank 
and Newt played their whips over him, and he was quickly at my 
pony’s heels. Lep could run like a race-horse when he got in full 
swing. 

We could still hear voices in the camp; and doubtless the clatter 
we ourselves made was plainly audible there. But on we fled through 
the star-lit night, up and down hills, across gullies and ravines, and 
over stretches of rocky road, all at the same reckless, headlong speed. 

For a few days, with this or a similar emergency in our mind’s 
eye, we had been riding Hart’s horses all the time, and our own hors- 
es were now rested. They ran well; but after two or three miles 
our cattle, and particularly the young ones, began to breathe noisily. 
I drew Dick down from a run to a gallop, and then to a trot, and 
later to a walk. Finally we all halted, to listen. 

At first we could hear nothing to alarm us. But soon hoof-beats, 
faint and far away, but fast growing louder, reached our ears. Un- 
doubtedly Hart and some of his cowboys were coming, in furious, 
vengeful pursuit. 

“They’re hot on our trail, boys, and it’s high time for us to be 
sliding out of their way,” remarked Frank. 

“That’s right, but we’d better not try any more runnin’ just now,” 
Newt answered. “Let’s take to the brush and give ’em a clear course.” 

“Yes, and let’s be quick about it,” I spoke up. “We want to get 
well out of the way and well hid before they come too close. And 
that won’t be long.” 

We had now left those steep hills behind; but the country we were 
in was still pretty well covered with brush — mesquite bushes and 
low, squatty mesquite trees here. In appearance such a country as 
that always reminds me of a peach orchard — a peach orchard set 
without rows. One can easily ride in any direction; but even in 
broad daylight it is impossible to see many yards through it. 

We now turned out of the road, and quickly lost ourselves among 
the mesquites. After winding a few hundred yards we stopped. The 
furiously galloping horsemen were already drawing near. We all 
dismounted. Vic, panting a little from our recent race, now came 
to me. I had not caught so much as a glimpse of her since we first 
started, but I had had no fears of losing her. 

She was far from being a noisy dog; but there was a possibility 
that she would bark, at least a few times, as the horsemen dashed 
by. So I sat down and held her, with my hand around her mouth. 

While the horsemen were coming on my heart kept beating re- 
sponsively to the hoof-beats — louder and faster, louder and faster. 
In fact, I half expected that our pursuers, on reaching the point 
where we had left the road, would turn out likewise and come tear- 
ing through the brush after us. But they clattered on, and kept clat- 
tering on till they had passed beyond hearing. Then, and not till 
then, did I breathe freely again. 

“Well, we’re shut of that trouble for a while, I guess. So we might 
as well be on the go,” remarked Newt. 

Now we wound our way back to the road. I was still leading Lep, 
and Frank and Newt were driving him and the other cattle. 

^ “Do you suppose those fellows are likely to come back?” said I 
while we were jogging along at an easy gait. 

“Not yet a while, I guess. But we’ll have to look sharp later,” 
answered Newt. 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


{W 


107 


We did not travel fast; for there was no knowing what minute we 
might hear our pursuers — our would-be pursuers — returning, and 
have to drive off into the brush again. The country was wilderness 
here— a wilderness of brush and low hills. 

For several miles we kept on, meeting nobody and hearing nobody 
and seeing nobody. We were constanly on our guard, and more or 
less anxious all the time. But day dawned at last, and still our en- 
emies had not troubled us. ' 

While the dawn was yet gray, we came to where our road split 
Itself wide open. One fork, leading almost south, was the road along 
which we had traveled with the drove of cattle the day before. The 
main fork kept on due east. 

Up to this time we had been unable to make anything of the trail 
of Harts party, because of the darkness and, of the trampled condi- 
tion of the road. But now we could see that two horses had recently 
galloped east on the road leading in that direction. We had little 
doubt as to who their riders v/ere. 

"‘But there were three or four in that gang,” said Frank. “They 
must have split up here. Let me see if I can pick out the other trail.” 

He moved along the south road for fifteen yards, crossing back 
and forth, and presently announced that he had discovered the tracks 
of two more horses. 


“So there must be four of ’em huntin’ us down,” said Newt. “Hart 
and Ame and Ben and one of them Greasers — Jose I guess. The 
other Greaser and Sam Hart left at the camp to stand guard over 
the cattle. Now the question is: which road ought we to travel?” 

“East for us,” I told him. “We want to get back beyond the Col- 
orado as soon as possible.” 

So we followed the main-traveled road. All the time we kept our 
eyes and ears strained. A meeting with Hart or any of his cowboys 
was the last thing we desired just now. But we jogged along four 
or five miles farther without seeing a soul. Then our road forked 
again, the less-traveled branch leading north. As their trail indi- 
cated, the two horsemen had ridden straight on. 

“Well, which road now, boys?” remarked Newt. “Still east?” 

“Yes, straight ahead, I guess,” Frank answered. 

But something had occurred to me. “If we keep on this way, 
we’re liable any minute to find ourselves face to face with those fel- 
lows. They’re bound to come back sooner or later. Why not ride 
north till we get clear of them? Then we can turn east again. We 
live miles and miles north of here anyway.” 

After some discussion the others accepted my view that it would 
be wiser to follow the less-traveled road, and away we went, our 
faces turned northward. 

A few miles in that direction brought us to a settler’s cabin, the 
first we had seen today; and after that we passed other scattering 
settlements. We crossed an occasional open prairie; but most of the 
country bristled with mesquite brush and different kinds of scrubby 
timber. 

Our winding, snake-like road, which had been dim and little trav- 
eled when we first turned north, kept growing plainer as it swallow- 
ed up other winding, snake-like roads from time to time. The set- 
tlements kept getting closer and closer together; and we were not 
greatly surprised when, at length, we looked from a low hill upon a 
little town. A few minutes later we entered it. 

The town stood in some woods — some scattering, scragly woods. 
There was a square of one-story wooden store-houses, and most of 
them small and unpainted and weather-beaten, set around a plain 
but neat-looking stone court-house, two stories high. 


108 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


The time was now noon. Half the night and half the day we had 
been in the saddle, almost without stopping. Not having swallowed 
a bite since supper of the day before, our appetites were little short 
of ravenous. And we knew our horses and cattle must be still hun- 
grier. There was a livery-stable at one side of the square, and at 
Newt’s suggestion we turned in there and dismounted. 

After unsaddling, we drew water from a well in a yard or pen 
back of the stable, and watered all our animals. Then we bought 
feed for them. The horses we fed in stalls in the stable, but the 
cattle were fed in the pen behind the stable, in the shade of a big 
elm. All the animals showed signs of their hard traveling. 

Later we ourselves drank out of the bucket, and washed our hands 
and faces in the watering-trough. 

“Well, I don’t know how you boys feel, but I, for one, am glad that 
little business is over, and that we’re safdy out of it,” I remarked, 
while we were taking turns at our hair with our one pocket-comb. 

“Do you suppose there’s any danger here?” asked Frank. 

“Of course not,” I answered, confidently. “Even if they did find 
us here, they wouldn’t dare bother us.” 

“No, I don’t think they would,” Newt agreed. 

Now we started out in search of dinner. There was no restaurant, 
but at one of the stores we made a hearty meal of canned stuff. Af- 
terwards we returned to the livery-stable. There were many people 
in town, we had noticed; and the livery-stable keeper informed us 
that district court was in session. But we had little interest in such 
matters. 

“Boys,” said Newt, “I’m about to fall asleep on my feet. I didn’t 
sleep much night before last, and I scarcely shut an eye last night. 
The horses and cattle need rest anyway, and I’d like to have a good, 
long snooze before we go any farther. Let’s ask this man to let us 
climb up into his loft and- nap it a while on the hay, or whatever he’s 
got up there.” 

“I’m in for that,” declared Frank. And I agreed with him. 

The proprietor was willing enough, and we climbed the ladder 
into the loft. It was rather dark up there under the roof, and a 
good place to sleep on that account. The hay and sheaf-oats were 
luxury itself after a blanket on the ground, and each of us had soon 
picked out a comfortable place and gone to sleep in it. 

We slept like logs, to use one of our own expressions, for perhaps 
two hours. And so weary were we that we might have slept away 
most of the afternoon if we had been left undisturbed. But I was 
finally aroused by a voice almost in my ear: 

“Wake up! Wake up here! Will you never wake?” 

Drowisly, still half asleep, I sat up. I was scarcely a yard from 
the top of the ladder, my two companions being farther back. Look- 
ing from under heavy lids, in the dim loft, I could make out a man 
standing on the ladder, with his head and shoulders above the loft. 
And then suddenly, I was wide awake; for there was a six-shooter 
in the man’s hand. While not cocked or aimed, it was pointing un- 
mistakably at me! 

My first impression was that Hart had overtaken us and come for 
vengeance. But another look showed me that the man was an utter 
stranger. 

“Up with your hands there, please!” he ordered sternly, but 
quietly. 

I was only a foot or two from the gaping muzzle of that six-shoot- 
er; and when I failed to raise my hands, it came up to a level with 
my face. 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


109 


“What — who — who are you?” I stammered. But my hands remain- 
ed obstinately down. 

“I’m the sheriff of this county; and I hold a warrant for your ar- 
rest.” 

“Arrest! What for?” I demanded, in amazement. 

“For stealing these three cattle down here in the pen,” was the 
quiet reply. 


CHAPTER XXL 


PRISONERS AT THE BAR. 

U P with your hands, I say!” repeated the sheriff, still more 
sternly. And he thrust that big-mouthed six-shooter closer 
to my nose. 

^‘What do you want my hands up for?” I growled, resentfully. 
“Nothing in them. And there’s not a sign of a weapon on me. Are 
you afraid I’ll scratch you?” I held out my open hands, but I did 
not hold them up. 

“All right, then,” he answered, rather good-naturedly. “But slide 
over this way a little, till I can make sure.” 

I moved nearer. After feeling of my pockets, my boot-legs and 
the front of my shirt, he stepped up into the loft and motioned me 
toward the ladder. 

“Climb down, please,” he ordered, but without looking at me. He 
had turned his attention to Frank and Newt, who were still sleeping, 
unconscious of impending trouble. 

I now started down the ladder, and quickly discovered five deputy 
sheriffs guarding the bottom of it, every one with a six-shooter in 
his hand. Scarcely had I set foot on the floor, when one of the guards 
approached and searched me again, from head to foot this time. He 
even robbed me of my pocket-knife. 

Frank came climbing down the ladder, closely followed by Newt. 
The deputies now began to search my two friends very thoroughly, 
as they had searched me. Frank’s six-shooter was in his saddle-b^ags, 
and Newt’s had been unbelted before he lay down and thrown back 
on the hay, where the sheriff failed to discover it. So, when the 
search was ended, no weapon had been found on any of us. 

“Why didn’t you bring a hundred men and a cannon or two to ar- 
rest three unarmed boys?” I inquired, sarcastically, of the armed 
circle surrounding us. “A brave crowd you are!” I added, bitterly; 
for I felt that we had already been disgraced. 

The sheriff and his deputies appeared somewhat abashed, and every 
six-shooter promptly hid itself in its scabbard. 

“It was only a matter of precaution, boys,” the sheriff apologized, 
very nicely. “Of course we didn’t know anything about you, and we 
didn’t know you were unarmed. There are so many reckless, desper- 
ate characters riding about the country these days it’s safer for us 
and better for them that we don’t give them any chance to resist 
when we go to arrest them.” 

Fifteen or twenty men now flocked into the livery-stable attracted 
hither by curiosity. They had seen the half-dozen officers marching 
over here from the court-house, and had been told that some cattle- 
thieves were to be arrested. But they had prudently remained out- 
side till it was all over, half expecting a battle. It was rather fash- 
ionable at this time for law-breakers to resist officers of the law. 
“Who is it accuses us of stealing those cattle?” demanded Frank. 
“The men that swore to the warrant are over in my office at the 
court-house,” answered the sheriff. 

“We want to face them,” I spoke up. 

“You shall face them, and that very soon,” answered the officer, 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


111 


but not unkindly. He saw how we had taken the arrest to heart, and 
he doubtless felt sorry for us. 

“What’s their names?” asked Newt. 

The sheriff took out a paper. “This is the warrant,” he said. “I’ll 
read it to you.” And read it he did, with all its quaint legal phrase- 
ology and repetitions. The names of the men who had sworn to the 
truth of the charge specified in it were Amos Watson and Benjamin 
Dankens. 

As we afterwards learned Ame and Ben had finally struck our 
trail, followed us to the town, and had found the three cattle. The 
keeper of the livery-stable had refused to surrender the animals and 
had advised the cowboys to talk with the sheriff. That officer had 
declined to do anything until they had sworn out a warrant. That 
done, our arrest had followed promptly. 

All three of us stood half-stupefied by the astonishing turn affairs 
had taken. Not once had it occurred to us that Hart or his cowboys 
would dare do such a thing as drag us into court. But now that they 
had done so, I for one was beginning to realize what an embarrassing 
and troublesome predicament we had got ourselves into. If we had 
claimed the cattle before driving them off, or if we had had any proof 
whatever of Hart’s guilt in handling stolen stock, all would have 
been easy enough. But, as matters now stood, our accusers held 
every advantage. 

There was one all-important point in our favor, however; and to 
that solid rock of fact I clung with hopeful tenacity. 

“Mr. Sheriff,” I said, “is it a crime to drive off your own cattle, 
no matter where you find them?” 

“Of course not. A man can do what he pleases with his own.” 

“Then we’re all right,” I declared. “That’s just what we did, and 
nothing more.” 

“Can you prove that those three cattle out there are your proper- 
ty?” the officer inquired. 

“We certainly can.” 

“Yes, we certainly can,” spoke up Prank. “It may take time to 
get our witnesses here, but we can prove beyond a doubt that those 
cattle belong to us.” 

“Then you’re all right, boys,” the sheriff assured us. “And I hope 
you can. But the men over there have told a pretty straight tale, 
and topped it off with an affidavit. As you heard in the warrant, they 
swear that their employer, a man named Hart, is the owner of these 
cattle. They swear, too, that you boys were hired hands of Hart’s; 
and that last night, in the dead of night, while you were supposed to 
be standing guard over the drove, you stole out these animals and 
ran them off.” 

“That’s the naked truth, except that Hart didn’t really own the 
cattle,” said Frank. “Do they charge us with stealing our horses.” 

“No. They say you’re riding your own horses. They made one 
false impression on me, though. From what they told me I inferred 
that you must be pretty reckless fellows, if you were young. That’s 
why we came in force. But I’ve already changed my mind about 
that. For one thing, you three sleep too soundly to have much on 
your consciences. And the fact that you’re going about the country 
unarmed is good evidence that you’re not the desperate characters 
I mistook you to be. But I don’t understand how you could have 
done all that these men swear you did, and still be innocent.” 

“We’re innocent of any wrong-doing, just the same. But we’re not 
quite unarmed. I’ve got a six-shooter yonder in my saddle-bags,” re- 
plied Frank. 

“And my six-shooter is up-stairs on the hay,” Newt explained. “I 
laid it aside before I went to sleep.” 


112 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


Deputies started to get the weapons. While they were gone, some- 
thing occurred to me with startling suddenness, and I demanded of 
the sheriff: 

“You’re not going to put us in jail?” 

“Can you give bond?” 

“I — I’m afraid not. We’re strangers here. I must be a hundred 
and fifty or two hundred miles from home.” 

“Then I don’t see how I can do otherwise. The law requires it.” 

I turned away. To me, naturally sensitive as I was, the very 
thought of being locked up with criminals was dreadful. All the rest 
of my life I should be pointed out as the boy or man who had once 
been in jail. Even my conscious innocence could not console me for 
that. 

“It will be an outrage if you do!” declared Frank, bitterly. The 
sheriff returned no answer. 

Now we crossed' over from the livery-stable to the court-house. 
Everybody that noticed us stopped and stared, but I was only vaguely 
aware of it. The sheriff’s office was on the first floor; and there we 
found Ame Watson and Ben Dankins. Our recent fellow-cowboys 
only glared at us. When informed by the sheriff that we claimed to 
own the cattle found in our possession, they disputed our statement 
flatly and angrily. 

“We saw Hart buy ’em — saw ’im with our own eyes,” declared Ame. 

“Of course you saw him buy them,” Frank answered. “But he 
bought them from thieves. We were trailing those cattle when we 
overtook you and hired to Hart.” 

“You worked with our outfit three weeks. Did you lay claim to 
arry one of them three cattle once in all that time?” demanded Ame. 

“No, we never did,” Frank admitted. “That may have been our 
mistake, but — ” 

Ame laughed sneeringly. 

“But after seeing how men fared that did lay claim to cattle in 
that drove, we didn’t care to try it ourselves,” I spoke up. 

Ame scowled, but he did not sneer any more. 

“Boys,” said the sheriff, “I’ll tell you just what I’d do if I were in 
your place. District court is in session up-stairs now, and I would 
ask for an examining trial. The case is a rather deep one for me; 
and I have no authority to release you anyway, except on bond. But 
as you claim to be entirely innocent in fact of the charge brought 
against you I’ll speak to the judge about your case, and see if I 
can’t get him to call you before him right away. He’s a very careful, 
cautious man. Judge Wheeler is, and he’ll do you justice. You can 
depend on that.” 

After consulting together we three prisoners decided to ask for an 
examining trial as soon as possible; and we so informed the sheriff. 
Leaving us guarded by three deputies the officer went upstairs to the 
court-room. A quarter of an hour later he came down again and 
said: 

“I’ve just been talking to the judge about you, and he says he’ll 
hear you before he takes up any other case. He’s waiting now. If 
you’re ready we’ll go up at once.” 

And up-stairs to the court-room we marched, the sheriff himself 
leading the way, and a deputy walking by each of us. 

The large court-room was filled with people, and as we followed 
the sheriff down the aisle, with hundreds of eyes focused upon us, I 
was in a dazed state. Indeed, it all seemed like a horrible dream to 
me, from which I half hoped soon to awake and find myself some- 
where else — anywhere else but here. 

The three of us were marched up to a railing, behind which the 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


113 


clerk of the court sat at a table, writing busily. Then the officers 
stepped back, leaving us prisoners alone. 

How Newt and Frank stood the ordeal I do not know. But I had 
to grip the railing hard to steady myself. The judge, a grave but 
kindly-looking man, sat behind an elevated desk, gazing down upon 
us through spectacles. There was silence for a few moments, broken, 
for me, by the tumultuous pounding of my heart. 

Presently the judge said something to the clerk, who at once stood 
up and read a paper to us. Not one word of it did I seem to hear, 
though its import got into my mind somehow. It was the charge we 
had heard before from the sheriff. The clerk now sat down, and the 
judge leaned forward toward us. 

“Prisoners at the bar,” he said, “you have heard the reading of 
the charge against you. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?” 

After a few moments of the tensest silence, Frank spoke out, very 
distinctly : 

“Not guilty, your honor.” 

Newt said something in a low tone, doubtless the same. I was 
thinking rapidly. Knowing little of the ways of courts, I did not un- 
derstand that this was merely a formal question. And I had no in- 
tention of denying the truth. Before I could decide what to answer, 
the judge turned his legal glasses full upon me and inquired, in his 
smooth, strong voice: 

“And how do you plead, young man?” The tones were very kindly, 
and I cohld not help feeling that we were in friendly hands. 

But I was still sorely perplexed as to how to answer truthfully. 
So, instead of answering the question, I blurted out another one — 
the same that I had asked the sheriff : 

“Is it a crime to drive off your own cattle?” 

“No,” answered the court. “Your method of getting possession of 
them might not have been the best; but if those cattle are yours np 
criminal charge can lie against you.” 

“Then I plead not guilty,” answered I, triumphantly. “We drove off 
those three cattle, just as they say we did. But they belong to us— to 
our fathers. The yearling and the two-year-old belong to my friend 
here. The big spotted ox is mine.” 

“So I am to understand that you base your defense upon the claim 
that the cattle are yours?” observed the court, with an interrogative 
inflection. 


“ThaPs right,” spoke up Frank. “That’s our defense — our only 
defense.” 

“And if you can establish your ownership of the cattle that will be 
an entirely sufficient defense,” the court assured us. “But, of course, 
that’s the question we shall have to determine. Have you a lawyer 
to look after your side of the case? If not, and you’re unable to em- 
ploy one, the court will appoint — I will appoint somebody to repre- 
sent you.” - I 

After some whispered consultation among the three of us, Frank 


announced : 


“We have no lawyer, and we hardly think we need one. Just now 
we have no witnesses besides ourselves, and all we can do is to state 
our case to you, and let you decide whether we tell the truth or not.” 

The judge considered the matter a few moments. “Are you all 
satisfled with that?” he inquired. 

“That suits me well enough,” answered Newt. I only nodded. 

“Very well, then. We’ll proceed — but you will have to be cross- 
examined by the prosecuting attorney. You understand that, don’t 


you?” 

“We’ve nothing 


but the truth to tell,” said Frank. 


114 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


“Very well. Take your seats back there.” 

We turned, and the sheriff indicated three chairs for us to occupy. 
Scarcely had we seated ourselves, when I felt something soft and 
warm in my hand, which was hanging at my side. Vic was licking 
it. I had utterly forgotten the little dog, but she had slipped in 
under the seats and made her way to me. She seemed to realize that 
I was in serious trouble; and she had come to cheer me up. 

I patted her on the head till she put her fore feet up on my lap 
and looked up into my face encouragingly, as if wanting to say: 

“Whatever happens, you’ve got one friend that will stand by you.” 

Later she dropped down and sat on the floor between Frank and 
me, as if she, too, were on trial. Her sharp ears were pricked up 
alertly, and her bright eyes were fixed on the judge. In fact, she 
could scarcely have eyed him more intently if he had been a rat or 
a squirrel. She seemed to realize that on him hung the decision of 
a momentous question. 

Her head was perked knowingly to one side, and so steadfastly 
did she watch the court that the lawyers seated near called one an- 
other’s attention to her and smiled. A deputy-sheriff approached, 
apparently in doubt as to whether he should take her out or not. But 
the judge shook his head, and the officer retired. 

By this time I had largely thrown off my embarrassment, and the 
importance of impressing the court with the truth of our story had 
put me on the alert; so much so that I forgot almost everything else 
— forgot even to worry about what would follow if the court should 
decide against us. 

The prosecuting attorney, a dark, smooth-shaven man, of rather 
stern countenance, now took hold of the case. After a few remarks 
to the court, he put Ame Watson on the witness-stand. 

The witness told how Newt Lindsay had hired himself to Hart 
about a year before, and Frank and I nearly three weeks before. He 
stated that he himself had seen Hart buy the three animals we had 
afterwards driven off; and he swore that Hart would never have an 
animal in his herd without a bill of sale to prove his ownership. 

Then he gave the particulars of our flight with the cattle, and of 
the ringing of the bell that had made known our escape to the men 
in Hart’s camp. He also told of pursuing us in the dark and failing 
to find us; then of retracing their way till they discovered our trail, 
and of following us here. He told only the truth; but throughout 
the telling of it he manifested the bitterest animosity toward all of us. 

The judge now asked him a few questions, the prosecuting attor- 
ney a few more, and we were given permission to question him. But 
there was nothing we cared to ask. 

Ben Dankins was next put on the stand, mainly to corroborate 
what Ame had already testified to. 

“Now one of you may take the chair,” said the court, speaking to 
us. “It doesn’t matter who testifies first.” 

We three prisoners consulted. “Your story commences first, and 
you’d better tell it first,” whispered Frank to me. And Newt agreed 
with him. So I stepped forward, and after being sworn by the clerk 
took my seat in the chair for witnesses. 

“Now,” said the judge, gazing at me through his glasses, “you 
may state your own case in your own way. Try to bring out every- 
thing that has any bearing on this matter. But first give your name 
and place of residence.” 

Turning so as to partly face the judge and partly the people in 
the court-room, I began my story. My voice trembled a little at first, 
but I soon got control of it. 

After stating who I was and where I lived, and that I was prob- 
ably two hundred miles from home, I mentioned father’s settling on 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


115 


the Little Pecan Creek, and told of whom he had bought Lep and 
Coaly, and how much he had paid for them. I also mentioned the 
fact that I had plowed with the oxen for months, and so could not be 
mistaken as to their identity. Then I told how Lep had run away, 
and I had followed him — had been following him ever since. I also 
explained how Frank came to join me, and how it happened that we 
were hunting three cattle instead of one. 

I alluded to the wall of water that had stopped us, and mentioned 
our being water-bound on the Cowhouse, and our rafting ourselves 
over. From that I jumped to the finding of our cattle in a drove, 
and told of the threatening six-shooters that had gaped at us when 
we tried to claim our own. Almost from the moment I began there 
had been utter silence in the court-room. But now a murmurous 
wave of indignation ran over the crowd. 

Proceeding, I described our experience with Sheriff Dugan, dwel- 
ling particularly on his slowness and on his turning against us and, 
threatening to arrest us after failing to find our cattle in the drove 
where they had been. Of this matter I made as much as I could; 
for this alone would explain much of our subsequent course. And 
I was gratified to notice that what I said produced an unmistakable 
effect. Another surprised, resentful murmur ran over the crowd. 
And even the judge himself looked indignant. 

“Yes, I can understand how you felt,” he said, when I had told of 
our decision to have nothing more to do with sheriffs. “Such things 
as that have a natural tendency to bring officers of the law, and even 
the law itself, into disrepute. I’m glad to inform you that there are 
very few such sheriffs as that in the state of Texas. And certainly 
you wouldn’t have had any such trouble if you had appealed to 
Sheriff Renfro, of this county. But go ahead.” 

Now I went on to tell of our hunt for the lost trail, and later of 
finding the three cattle in the hands of the man who had bought 
them from the thieves. Then I dwelt as well as I could on our un- 
certainty as to the proper course to pursue, and explained that we 
had jumped at Hart’s offer because it allowed us to stay with our cat- 
tle till we could come to some decision. I also told of our tardy re- 
solve to explain matters to Hart, and of our changing our minds a 
few hours later when we saw what happened to the two men who did 
claim some of Harf;’s cattle. 

Then I explained what the consequences would have been if we had 
claimed our cattle and been ordered out of the camp for our trouble. 
Even if we could have persuaded ourselves to call upon another 
sheriff for help the drove was now at the outer edge of the settle- 
ments, and was moving toward Hart’s ranch, far out in the wilder- 
ness. Before it could be overtaken it would be so far away that no 
sheriff would probably care to follow. So, at the best, we should 
have lost our cattle. And so, much as we had disliked the secret na- 
ture of what we were doing, we had thought it safest to slip the cat- 
tle out and run them off. 

• When I had finished, the judge leaned back thoughtfully. Every 
eye in the court-room, mine with the others, was now centered upon 
him. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


HELD FOR THE GRAND JURY. 

T HAT’S a rather remarkable story,” the court finally observed. 
“Have you brought out everything that has any bearing on 
your case?” 

“Everything I think of,” I answered. “But there’s one point I’d 
like to mention. There were over six hundred head of cattle in that 
drove, and thirty or forty horses not far away. If we’d wanted any- 
body’s stock besides our own, we could have driven off fifty or a hun- 
dred head just as easily as three.” 

“That’s a good point — a good point in your favor,” commented the 
court. “I’m glad you mentioned it; though it would have occurred 
to me I’ve no doubt.” 

Now the prosecuting attorney took me in hand. If the judge had 
seemed a friend to us rather than a prosecutor, this man seemed a 
bitter enemy, not only determined to convict me of cattle-stealing, 
but taking it for granted in advance that I was a thorough scoun- 
drel. He glared at me as a tiger might glare at an offending pup, 
and seemed about to pounce upon me and tear me to pieces. Then 
he plunged into his questions. 

His blustering, threatening ways frightened me somewhat at first; 
but soon the injustice of it occurred to me, and my temper, never the 
best, came to my relief. After that I felt more angry than afraid, 
though I was careful enough to conceal my feelings. 

“Where did you say you lived?” he shouted. And when I had 
told him, he shouted again: “Are you sure you don’t live in Arkan- 
sas or the Indian Territory?” 

I only repeated my first answer, and stuck stubbornly to that. 

This was a specimen of his questioning. And so he kept on through 
my whole story. ^ • 

“Mr. Rhodes,” the judge remarked, soon after the cross-examina- 
tion had begun, “it seems to me that you’re unnecessarily belligerent 
toward this witness. Couldn’t you be a little less fierce?” 

The attorney glared at the court, but subdued his tones for a few 
questions. Soon he was going at the same pace again. Twice or 
three times more the judge reproved him, too mildly it seemed to 
me. Finally, as if in despair of controlling the blusterer, he remark- 
ed to me, dryly: 

“You needn’t mind Mr. Rhodes, ypung man. His bark’s worse 
than his bite.” 

A titter ran through the crowded court room, and the lawyer glared 
around him. But the manner of his questioning was not much im- 
proved. When he came to examine me concerning our leaving Hart’s 
camp, he said: 

“Your employer trusted you to guard his cattle, and yet the first 
thing you did last night was to sneak off and leave that whole drove 
to scatter all over creation. Call that being honest, do you?” he 
sneered. 

“It wasn’t half as bad as you make it out,” I answered, stung by 
his taunts. “We kept a guard around them as a matter of precau- 
tion; but they’re farm-cattle and not range-cattle, and there wasn’t 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


117 


much danger of a stampede. The guard seldom had anything to do 
but keep awake. They’d been driven hard, too, those cattle, and 
they’d had plenty of grass and water. I doubt if a single one of them 
got up before morning.” 

“You do, eh?” scoffed the prosecutor. Then he referred to his notes 
and went on: “When you schemed, plotted to drive off those cattle 
— the three cattle you claim to own — didn’t you know that your em- 
ployer, Mr. Hart, had paid good, honest money for them?” 

“I didn’t know anything about how honest the money was, but I 
did know he’d paid for them.” 

“And you sneaked off cattle that you knew he’d paid for, and that 
without even hinting to him that you claimed them! That’s another 
specimen of your honesty, is it?” 

“I’m glad you brought that up,” I answered. “I forgot it before. 
We didn’t tell Mr. Hart what' we had intended to tell him, because 
we were afraid of being chased out of the camp. But we paid back 
every cent that he’d paid for our cattle.” 

“You paid it back!” shouted the prosecutor, as if boiling over with 
rage at the mere mention of such an absurdity. “Yes, you know 
how you paid it back — with sneaking ingratitude! You paid it back 
as the serpent pays the bosom that warms it! Oh yes, you paid it 
back!” he scoffed. 

“We didn’t pay it back in ingratitude or anything of the kind,” I 
answered, indignantly. “We paid every cent of it in cash — except 
what Hart owed us.” 

The lawyer started to shout some sneering, incredulous question, 
but the judge waved him aside and himself put one: 

“How could you pay Mr. Hart that money, if you didn’t claim the 
cattle, or tell him what you proposed to do?” 

Glad to make the matter clear, I turned to the court. “We wrote 
a letter of explanation, and put that and the money in an envelope, 
and dropped it into the tin-box where he keeps all his papers.” 

“Where was that box? And how did you happen to have access 
to it?” questioned the court, leaning forward. 

“It was in the wagon at the time. Mr. Hart had told me to look 
after the box, and keep his bills of sale and other papers in shape. 
If he hasn’t found our letter and money yet he will the first time he 
opens the box. I put the letter on top of everything. We knew' that 
Mr. Hart didn’t have any .real claim to the cattle — our cattle — but 
we paid him back what he’d paid out, because we didn’t want to do 
anything that even smelt like stealing.” 

The judge nodded approvingly again and again as he leaned back 
and motioned to Rhodes to go on. 

After a few more unimportant questions, some of them shouted, 
some sneered, and some roared at me, I left the stand. 

Frank now took my place. He was more used to the ways of courts 
than I was, and did not stand so much in awe of them. He told his 
story well, and the prosecuting attorney, though he tried hard and 
loudly, failed to shake his testimony in the least. 

Newt, who next took the stand, did equally well except in one re- 
spect. For some reason neither Frank nor I had even mentioned our 
suspicions that Hart was handling stolen stock. But Newt came out 
boldly and charged that half the animals in Hart’s drove were stolen. 

I could see Ame and Ben scowling wrathfully, with a look on their 
faces which boded ill for Newt if they should ever come upon him 
in some secluded spot. 

I was somewhat alarmed at this wholesale charge, and so was 
Frank. We had not supposed that Newt would dare make it without 
better evidence than we now had. When the prosecutor began to 


118 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


question him on this point Newt, having sworn to mere suspicions, 
naturally became much confused and embarrassed. Of necessity his 
answers were very indefinite. For if Hart had been walking in for- 
bidden ways, he had covered his tracks cunningly. Before the ordeal 
was over. Newt was forced to admit that his suspicions had scarcely 
a well-established fact to stand on. 

After Newt had left the witness-stand, the judge ^ remained 
thoughtful for a few moments. Then he beckoned to Sheriff Renfro. 
The officer approached, and was given some instructions in a low 
tone. 

“Yes, your honor,” I heard him answer. Then the judge announc- 
ed aloud : 

“Mr. Sheriff, take charge of these three prisoners and guard them 
safely. I’m taking their case under consideration, and will announce 
my decision as soon as possible.” 

The sheriff led us back a few yards, and found a seat for us. I 
sat against the wall, Frank next, and Newt last. A deputy-sheriff, 
left by Renfro to guard us, seated himself outside of all. 

Frank and Newt appeared not at all anxious about the outcome, 
and kept whispering together and with the deputy. But I, though 
hopeful, was both anxious and nervous. Try as I would to think of 
something else, my thoughts would not let go that subject, and my 
eyes seemed glued to the judge’s face. 

I had hoped before that the judge would at once set us at liberty. 
But the fact that he was taking time to consider our case meant 
that it was not so clear to him as it was to us. So I waited and 
watched for some sign that would indicate how the matter was going. 

At first he looked well pleased over something, as if he had an 
agreeable task to perform. Believing that he would be glad to set 
us at liberty, I hoped for the best. But presently, as he went on with 
his routine duties, I saw his brow wrinkle to a frown. And the 
frown remained there. 

A case was called, a civil suit of some kind, which I felt little in- 
terest in. The judge watched the selection of a jury in a casual way, 
but I could see that we still occupied the central place in his thoughts. 
More than once his glance turned in our direction. And the frown 
remained on his brow till it became a worried look, which gradually 
grew stern. 

My heart sank. I was much frightened. Some instinct told me 
that the man I was watching had decided upon an unpleasant duty. 
Soon his eyes traveled toward us again, and met my troubled, ap- 
pealing gaze. But they quickly turned aside, as if refusing to grant 
what I would ask. 

A feeling of numb dread took possession of me. Now I seemed to 
foresee plainly what was coming. I turned to my fellow-prisoners to 
warn them. They were still whispering with the deputy. Sometimes 
they laughed noiselessly. I marveled that they could laugh. 

“Boys,” I leaned over and whispered, “it’s all up! He’s going to 
decide against us. Don’t you see he is?” 

They both stared at me. “Look here, Travis, what ails you?” de- 
manded Frank. “You must be badly worked up. How do you know 
anything about what he’s going to do? He hasn’t taken you into his 
confidence. We haven’t done a thing that we didn’t have a right to 
do. And the judge can’t do otherwise than turn us loose.” 

“But he can,” I insisted. “And he will — he will, I tell you. He’s 
going to order us to jail. We’ll be in jail inside of thirty minutes!” 

They laughed at me, but I was far past laughing. Dumbly, miser- 
ably I sat, plainly foreseeing the fate in store for us. Presently the 
suit that was being tried came to a standstill for some reason. And 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


119 


before it had started up again I was startled to hear the judge’s 
voice say, almost sternly, to our guard: 

“Mr. Jones, please conduct your three prisoners to the bar again. 
I’m ready now to announce my decision in their case.” 

My heart sank within me, like lead, as I marched forward, half- 
dazed, beside my two cheerful, hopeful companions. When we had 
stopped and were standing at the bar, I noticed that the stern ex- 
pression, which boded ill for us, was still on the judge’s face. All 
the kindliness of look and manner had fallen from him. 

Every person present must have been interested in the decision; 
for a silence as of death hung over the court-room as the judge lean- 
ed forward slightly to speak. 

“Prisoners at the bar,” he said, in distinct, measured tones, “I 
have^ carefully weighed and reweighed all the testimony given by 
you in your own behalf, and it affords me pleasure to say that I be- 
lieve it — every word of it. You told your stories so consistently from 
first to last, and so gave them the true ring of the coin of truth, that 
it is almost impossible to doubt what you said.” 

By this time I was feeling as cheerful as a reprieved criminal. 
Frank nudged me with his elbow, as much as to say: “I told you 
he’d turn us loose.” But that stern look, which had partly faded 
out when the judge began to speak, now hardened his face again. 

“At the same time, young men,” he proceeded, “it must be admit- 
ted that I may be wholly mistaken. In view of this fact, and also 
of the very serious nature of the crime charged against you, and of 
the great importance of punishing every one guilty of that crime, a 
stern sense of duty requires me to do something I would gladly 
avoid doing. And that is to hold you till you can bring other testi- 
mony to corroborate your own. The improbability of your story 
makes this necessary. Don’t misunderstand me. The law does not 
require you or any person charged with a crime to prove his inno- 
*ence. But what you have done — what you admit you have done — 
is a crime on its face. And it does devolve upon you to prove that 
this seeming crime was justified by the fact of your owning the three 
cattle you drove off. This doesn’t mean, necessarily, that you will 
have to be tried in court. The next grand jury, when it convenes, 
will investigate your case. And if you bring the evidence that I be- 
lieve you can bring, they will dismiss the charge. But the necessi- 
ties of justice require that you do this before being set at liberty. 

“So my decision is that you be held in bond of five hundred dollars 
each for the next grand jury; and that, until such bond is given, you 
remain in the custody of the sheriff. I also specially order that those 
three cattle remain in the sheriff’s hands till the question of their 
ownership is decided. Take charge of your prisoners, Mr. Sheriff.” 

Though I had foreseen this decision, and had braced myself against 
it, it was a frightful blow to me. But Newt and Frank, having 
marched up to the bar cheerfully, smilingly, to be set at liberty, 
fairly staggered before the unexpected shock. Frank turned pale, 
and I saw him clutch the bar in front of him to steady himself. Once 
he opened his mouth to speak, but realizing how useless further 
words would be, he turned away. 

The sheriff himself now came forward to take charge of us, leav- 
ing some of his deputies to attend to matters in the court-room. He 
walked ahead, and a deputy walked behind us, to make sure that we 
did not escape. 

I moved as if in a dream — a horrible dream. But too well I rea- 
lized what was meant by the words “custody of the sheriff,” and 
where we were going. At length we were down stairs, in Renfro’s 
office. 1 f 


120 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


“Well, boys,’’ said the sheriff, “do you know of anybody that will 
sign your bonds?” 

“We’re a long way from our homes and friends, Mr. Sheriff,” 
Frank replied, in discouraged tones. “So it’s little worth while to 
talk about bonds to us. Who would sign the bond of an utter stanger?” 

Renfro was silent, and stood gazing out at the window. _ 

“Are you going to — ^to put us in — in jail?” I finally inquired. My 
lips and throat were so dry that I could scarcely speak. 

The officer turned slowly. “What else can I do, boys?” he asked, 
very kindly, almost appealingly. “The court has decided that, un- 
less you find bail, you must remain in my custody. And in the sher- 
iff’s custody means either under guard or locked up in jail. There’s 
no dodging that. The law, gives me very little discretion in the mat- 
ter. And so — ” 

He gazed out at the window again, without finishing. But we 
could easily fill in the blank. 

“And the worst of the matter — or the best of the matter — is that 
I heard every word of your evidence, and heartily believe you inno- 
cent. But little that helps matters for me. I have to obey the court’s 
orders. But you needn’t be so much afraid of the jail. You shall 
be well treated. I promise you that.” 

“It’s not the treatment itself we’re afraid of, nor even the jail 
itself,” I explained. “It’s the name of having once been in jail. 
People dearly love to believe what’s bad about one, and — ” 

“Yes, I know — I understand,” Renfro answered. “And I’m glad 
to see you so sensitive about your reputations. But the fact that 
you’re innocent is, after all, the only really important matter. As 
long as you’re conscious of that, you needn’t worry seriously about 
anything else.” 

He walked over to a desk and talked to a deputy for a minute or 
two, in low tones, then turned to us again. 

“Well, boys,” he said, “I suppose we shall have to go. It never 
improves a disagreeable matter to keep putting it off.” 

We followed him out. Again I seemed to be walking in a dream — 
the most horrible dream I had ever dreamed. Through the door we 
passed, over some long steps in the court-house fence, and on into 
the street, or square. I wonder if a man on his way to the gallows 
could feel much worse than I felt as I marched in dull, almost un- 
seeing, misery toward the jail that day. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


IN THE SHADOW OF THE JAIL. 


A S we were crossing the square, in charge of Sheriff Renfro and 
a deputy, an old man, gray-haired and gray-bearded, saw us 
and came to meet us. He looked hard at Frank and me. Sup- 
posing that he was staring at us because we were prisoners, I turned 
my eyes away. 

So it would be all the rest of my life, I reflected, miserably. I 
should forever be stared at as the boy or man who had once been in 
jail. If I went off to school the other students would point me out as 
the student who had been behind bars. And no matter what I did 
or attempted to do, people would whisper to one another of that black 
spot in my history. And if I ever dared aspire to any position of 
trust or honor, somebody would rise up straightway and call me a 
jail-bird. 

Old Demosthenes, in that famous oration on the crown, which gave 
him the title of king of orators, declared that people would rather be- 
lieve evil than good of other people. And though at this time I had 
never read that saying, I was already well aware of its truth. I had 
once known a man who had been arrested and jailed somewhere, on 
an utterly groundless suspicion. Of course he was promptly released 
when the mistake was discovered. Yet I had heard one of his neigh- 
bors say, maliciously: “Oh, they didn’t prove anything against him, 
but we all know they don’t put people in jail for nothin’.” And so, 
I had no doubt, they would say of me. 

“Howdy, Mr. Renfro!” The old man was greeting the sheriff. 
And as they shook hands, the sheriff answered: 

“How do you do, Mr. Gaines? How long have you been in town? 
And how is your daughter by this . time?” 

“She’s gettin’ along toler’ble well. She set up a good part of yis- 
terday. I druv in before noon. Believe I know two of these young 
men, Mr. Renfro. At least I’ve seen ’em before. Hope they’re not 
in any — any trouble.” 

I looked at the man. And though there was something familiar 
about his face, such was my mental condition at the time that I fail- 
ed to recognize him. 

“Well, not in any trouble they won’t get out of, I guess,” answered 
the sheriff. “But of course it’s a little serious just now. They’re 
accused of driving off somebody else’s cattle. But they insist that 
the cattle really belong to them, though the other man didn’t know 
it, and that they’d been hunting for these very cattle for weeks.” 

“Well, Mr. Renfro, I hain’t'a bit of doubt in the world but what 
they’re tellin’ the naked truth. I saw ’em away over yander on the 
Cowhouse River a month or so aeo, and they told me they was hunt- 
in’ three run-away cattle. I recollect that well enough. Some man 
on the south bank had stopped the cattle and shut ’em up in his 
paster; but they’d got out and run away ag’in while the boys was 
still water-bound on the north bank. They made a raft and crossed 
the river on it, and they ferried me and my wife and my wagon 
across on it. Where did you And your cattle, boys?” 

“We Wnd them first in the hands of some thieves,” Frank told 


122 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


him. “We tried to get them, and couldn’t; and then we tried to have 
the thieves arrested, and couldn’t. The thieves are still at large, I 
guess, stealing other people’s stock. But we, the owners of the 
stolen cattle, are on our way to jail!” He spoke bitterly, almost 
with tears in his eyes and voice. 

“Well now, I’m mighty sorry to hear that — the sorriest kind to 
hear that,” answered the old man. “If I can be of any help to you, 
boys, count on me every time. I’m a pore man, but I’ll do whatever 
I can for you.” 

He shook hands with us, warmly, then turned to the sheriff. 

“Mr. Renfro, I feel mighty shore in my own mind that two of these 
boys wouldn’t steal anybody’s cattle, and I’ll tell you why. I prom- 
ised ’em five dollars to raft me across the Cowhouse. They was in 
a big hurry to get after their cattle, and didn’t want to take the 
time. They found out, though, that me and my wife was tryin’ to 
get home to our sick daughter, and not a cent would they have. That 
kind of boys don’t drive off other people’s cattle, Mr. Renfro. You 
know that as well as I do. So if my name on their bond is worth 
anything to keep ’em out of jail, they can have it whenever they 
want it, and as long as they want it, and welcome to it.” 

The sheriff brightened at this unexpected offer, and so did we. 

“I’m glad to hear you say that, Mr. Gaines,” answered the officer. 
“How much do you suppose you’re worth above debts and exemptions?” 

“Above debts and exemptions? I don’t owe anything to speak of, 
but — let me see.” He went through a mental calculation. “Not over 
five hundred — just about five hundred dollars, I’d say.” 

“Well, their bonds are jxist five hundred apiece,” said the sheriff. 
“Boys, that will give one of you your liberty. Which one shall it be?” 

“There’s your chance, Frank,” I said. 

“No, you’re the youngest. You take it.” 

“Nonsense! I’m not so young. And I got you into this trouble. 
Do you think I'd go free while you’re — locked up? Nice opinion 
you’ve got of me!” 

“Well, then, here’s Newt. He walked straight into this tangle just 
to help us out. If Mr. Gaines would be willing to sign his bond in- 
stead of one of ours — ” 

“No, I’m the’ oldest steer in this bunch, and I’m not goin’ to take 
to the range and leave you yearlin’s penned up. If I could stay free 
and arrange to free you two, it wouldn’t be so bad. But there don’t 
seem to be anything I could do. One of you boys might just as well 
stay on the outside as not. But if you don’t want to, we’ll all stick 
together. We’ll all go to jail together, and we’ll all come out together 
when the time comes.” 

“Travis,” said Frank, “you’re a little touchier about this jail bus- 
iness than the rest of us. I don’t care so very much for being locked 
up, as long as I know I’m entirely innocent. So you’d better let Mr. 
Gaines sign your bond, and then you can stay out and look after 
your cattle.” 

This was pretty tempting for a few moments. But I knew well 
enough that Frank, while not so sensitive as I was, was far from 
feeling as indifferent to being thrown into jail as he would have me 
believe. And when I reflected that my two friends had got into this 
trouble through me, it seemed a shame for me to go free while prison- 
bars shut them in. So I shook my head at the proffered freedom, 
very regretfully it must be confessed, and answered: 

“Stay out yourself and attend to them — you or Newt.” 

“Well, Mr. Gaines,” said Frank, “we’re a thousand times obliged 
to you for your offer, but it seems we can’t make use of it j^ist ypt. 
If we should be lucky enough to find somebody that would sign the 
other two bonds, we’d like to have you help us out then.” 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


123 


All right. I’ll do it, boys. You can count on that.” 

“So that’s your decision, is it, boys?” said the sheriff. “Well, I’m 
glad you told me what you did, Mr. Gaines. Though not much in 
itself, perhaps your testimony corroborates what these boys testified 
to, and it ought to be valuable on that account. I wish we could 
have had you before the judge.” 

“If I’d even dreamed I was needed, I’d have been there. Just after 
I landed in town I was told some young fellers had been arrested 
here with stolen cattle in their possession; but I didn’t go over to the 
court-house to see ’em, like so many other people did. Mighty sorry 
now I didn’t. Is it too late for me to be a witness?” 

“I’m afraid it is, Mr. Gaines, for today. The judge was in the 
middle of a case when I came away, and he doesn’t like to be inter- 
rupted. Will you be in town tomorrow?” 

“I will be if I’m needed. Yes, I’ll come in to see. I’d have to come, 
whether I wanted to or not. My wife will make me when I tell her 
what’s happenin’ to these boys. She’s had lots to say about ^em 
since we saw ’em. Yes, I’ll come in.” 

“All right. And I’m going to have a talk with the judge and see 
what effect your testimony will have on the case. If it won’t do any 
other good, it may cause him to reduce their bonds. You see, Mr. 
Gaines, the court didn’t hold these boys because he really believes 
them guilty of any crime. But, just as a matter of precaution, he 
wants them held till some other evidence besides their own can be 
heard. He’s down on cattle-thieves. Judge Wheeler is; and it would 
break his heart if he turned one loose. That’s the main thing that 
makes him so cautious.” 

Our hopes had bedn rising and falling, alternately, with this con- 
versation. But when the sheriff announced that he would attempt 
nothing till the next day, my hopes dropped instantly to zero. That 
would not save us from what I so much dreaded. 

“Couldn’t — couldn’t you do something now, Mr. Renfro?” I ap- 
pealed. “Tomorrow will be too — too late.” 

“No, tomorrow will be all right. You see, boys, what Mr. Gaines 
has told me, and some other things, have made me decide to take 
some responsibility upon myself for one night. If you’d like to know, 
I don’t mind telling you that the way you hang together has some- 
thing to do with my decision. There are innocent people in the world 
foolish enough to imagine that the easiest way out of a trouble of 
this kind is to run out of it. But boys that won’t desert one another 
when they have a chance — a legitimate chance — won’t be likely to 
run off and leave the man that befriends them in the lurch. So you 
shall not go to jail tonight. That is, iT you’ll pledge me your word 
not to try to escape. You can occupy a room at my house; and per- 
haps I’ll sleep in the same room with you. It’s right close to the 
jail — in the shadow of the jail, in fact. But maybe you’ll like it bet- 
ter than that dreadful place itself.” He laughed. 

“We don’t care where it is — ^by the jail, or on the jail, or under 
the jail, or anywhere else, provided it’s not in jail,” I informed him. 

We now left old Mr. Gaines, who assured us again that he would 
be in town next day, and that whatever he could do for us, whether 
as a witness or as a bondsman, would be done. 

The sheriff’s residence was at the outer edge of the little town. 
And just behind it stood the one-story stone jail, with its narrow, 
barred windows. I shuddered at the sight of it. We afterwards 
learned that the place was pretty well filled with horse-thieves, cattle- 
thieves and other lawless characters that infested this part of Texas 
at the time. 

As we entered the house the sheriff’s daughter, a girl of fifteen or 


124 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


sixteen years, met us in the hall. After a few words with her, the 
officer conducted us to a back room and held open the door. 

“This will be your quarters for. the present,” he informed us. “I 
must ask you not to leave the room without permission. And you’ll 
have to give me your solemn word that you won’t; that is, if you’re 
to spend the night here.” 

Each of us promised, and then went in. It was a neat room, of 
good size, and there were two beds in it. 

“Either I or one of my deputies will sleep in there with you to- 
night,” the sheriff informed us, as he shut the door and went away. 

Probably he returned to the court-house; for, we neither saw nor 
heard him for some time. But we heard other people about the house, 
and the voices of children at play in the yard. 

Somewhat weary after our excitement, we sat down. Our sur- 
roundings were so much better than we had expected a short time 
before that, but for the veil of uncertainty that hung over the future, 
we should have been almost happy. 

“Well, boys,” I remarked, “our situation might be better, and then 
again it might be a great deal worse.” 

“Yes, and the worst thing about it is that it’s likely to get worse 
before it gets better,” answered Newt, rather gloomily. 

“That’s true enough,” admitted Frank. “We’ve been prisoners at 
the bar today. Tomorrow we may be prisoners behind the bars.” 
He laughed, rather feebly, at his own joke. 

“No, I’m hoping for something better instead of something worse,” 
I assured them. “A few minutes ago there didn’t seem to be any- 
thing on earth that could keep us out of jail. But there was some- 
thing, and I’m hoping that there’ll be something else till we get clear 
of this whole tangle.” 

Some time later Sheriff Renfro opened the door and put his head 
in to inquire if we needed anything. We mentioned the fact that 
our horses and cattle were over at the livery-stable, with nobody to 
feed them or care for them. He assured us that he or one of his 
deputies would attend to that matter at once. Some of them would 
have to go over there to serve legal notice upon the livery-stable 
keeper that, in accordance with the court’s instructions, he must not 
allow those cattle to be taken away, under penalty of the law, till 
the Question of their ownership was decided. 

The sheriff informed us that he himself had stable-room, and 
would bring our horses over to his own stable. But the cattle' would 
have to be left where they were for a day or two, till he could find a 
pasture to put them in. 

He went away, but returned before a great while to tell us that 
our three horses, with our saddles, were now in his stable, and that 
both horses and cattle had been watered and fed. 

Soon afterward he opened the door again, this time to say: 

“Come in to supper, boys.” And then he added: “You can under- 
hand what I think of your innocence when I invite you to my own 
table. No prisoner or anybody else that I believe guilty of stealing 
or any such crime has ever been invited to sit down with my family.” 

“We’re much obliged to you for your confidence in us, Mr. Renfro,” 
Newt answered. 

“And we haven’t done anything to keep us from deserving it,” 
Frank assured him. 

“And what’s more, we don’t intend to do anything,” I assured him. 

We were seated at a rather long table, with Sheriff Renfro at one 
end and his wife at the other. Two deputy-sheriffs and several of 
the Renfro children, including the girl we had seen, were at the table 
with us. A Mexican woman was waiting on the table. 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


125 


Frank talked as much as any of them, but Newt and I had little 
to say, except when the sheriff or his wife spoke to us. Not much was 
said at first about how we came to be here. But later, commencing 
in reply to Mrs. Renfro’s questions, Frank and I told the whole story 
of the search for the lost cattle, from the morning I had started from 
home till tonight. 

“Well, you have had a long, eventful hunt,” the woman remarked, 
after our story had been concluded. “It’s a shame that you should 
have got into such an unpleasant situation by what you did. But of 
course it’s not very serious. You’ll soon get out of it.” 

“I certainly hope so,” answered I. “In fact, I know we will. But 
even at the best it’s going to be a bothersome matter. My father will 
have to leave home and make a wagon-trip of three or four hundred 
miles, coming and going; and maybe he’ll have to bring a neighbor 
or two with him to identify Lep. And Frank’s people will have to 
do the same, though they won’t have to come so far. It’s sure to be 
troublesome business, any way we can fix it.” 

“And it’s so humiliating,” declared Frank, disgustedly. “To think 
that two fellows as big as we are started out to find a few cattle, 
and instead of finding them and driving them back we have to send 
home for somebody to come out and find us.” 

“Yes, I’ll be ashamed to go back home, even if I do keep out of jail,” 
I remarked. 

“Well, you needn’t be,” spoke up the sheriff. “Very few boys would 
have stuck to the trail as you’ve stuck to it. And I don’t know any 
other two boys anywhere that could have done as well as you’ve done, 
under all the circumstances. In fact, I don’t know that I could have 
improved on it much myself.” 

Supper was finished just as night was coming on. The deputies 
went away, and Renfro conducted us back to our room. He showed 
us a lamp and matches, but we did not care for a light. We heard 
movements outside from time to time, and voices, but were too busy 
thinking and talking about our own affairs to notice them much. But 
presently we were startled by cries from the jail: 

“Help! help! help!” It was a girl’s voice. 

Up we sprang, all three, tore open the door and burst into the hall. 
Just then the sheriff’s daughter rushed into the house. 

“The prisoners have killed father, and they’re escaping!” she 
screamed. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


IN THE CUSTODY OF THE SHERIFF. 

F rom the first, I think, we had surmised what was the matter. 
As the girl rushed into the dimly lighted hall we were looking 
about for weapons. 

“There! there!” She pointed to the wall, where several six-shoot- 
ers and some guns were hanging. 

I snatched a six-shooter out of its holster and started for the jail. 
Newt and Frank were with me. 

Just as we reached the jail-door it swung outward, and a grim, 
desperate-looking man appeared. There were others at his heels. 

Instantly ^ Frank and I thrust our six-shooters under the leader’s 
nose and ordered him back. Newt had armed himself with a Win- 
chester rifle, and with this he also covered the prisoners. 

“Go back! go back! go back!” he shouted, “or we’ll blow you back!” 
The leader of the jail-breakers stood for a few moments, gazing 
straight into the muzzles of our cocked weapons, as if thinking of 
coming on in spite of them. Then he uttered a string of fierce oaths, 
cursing his luck, and turned to his companions. 

“The jig’s up, boys,” he said, quietly but bitterly. “I didn’t know 
the house was full of men. We might as well go back.” 

And back they went, cursing but conquered. A yard or two in- 
side the outer door was a grating, with a grating door in it. The 
inner door was also open, and the prisoners passed back through it, 
sullenly. 

A lamp was burning inside the jail, and by its light we could see 
the sheriff lying on the jail-floor, as motionless as if dead. His wife 
and daughter were now behind us, both begging us to get him out. 

We hesitated, for the prisoners’ faces all wore a disappointed, 
vengeful scowl. 

“I’ll go in,” Frank proposed. 

“All right; go ahead,” answered Newt. “We’ll keep you covered, 
and if anybody dares touch yt)u, or even go near you, we’ll drop ^im 
in his tracks.” 

Frank ventured inside, and had soon half carried and half dragged 
the unconscious sheriff to the door. Then, after the jail-doors had 
been closed and securely locked, we carried the officer across the yard 
into the house. Soon after we had laid him on a bed, he opened his 
eyes. 

At Mrs. Renfro’s request, I had been on the point of starting for 
a doctor, and Frank and Newt to hunt up some of the deputies. But 
Renfro now called us back. He had been struck over the head with 
a rather light piece of wood, and was not seriously hurt. 

“I’m going to be all right in a few minutes,” he said. “What hap- 
pened, anyway?” 

His wife and daughter explained. And while they were telling 
him, it occurred to me that we had no right to be outside of our room. 
I was starting to apologize for it, but Renfro, now sitting up, stopped 
me with a gesture. 

“It’s a lucky thing that you had too much sense to stand cn the 
letter of your promise,” he remarked. “I exacted that promise for 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


127 


ordinary circumstances. A hundred cases might arise, I suppose, 
where I should expect you to break it. For instance, if the house 
burns down while I’m away. I don’t want you to stay in that room 
and burn to death, like foolish little Casablanca, just because I’m not 
here to tell you to come out. I’ve no use for a man or a boy that 
hasn’t a strict regard for his word. Neither have I much use for a 
man or a boy that hasn’t a little common-sense to mix with his hon- 
esty.” 

We now returned to our room, and a few minutes later the sheriff 
put his head in at the door. 

- “Boys,” he said, “I’m a thousand times obliged to you. If I had the 
authority. I’d gladly tell you that you’re at liberty to go where and 
when you please. But I’m only the sheriff, not the court. I will tell 
you, though, that you’re at liberty to go where you please about this 
house and grounds. I did intend to sleep in the room with you, but 
that won’t be necessary now. Good night to you!” 

It was late when I fell asleep. And there’s no use denying that I 
passed a somewhat restless night. High above everything else tow- 
ered^ the ghastly fact, for me, that we were already in the shadow of 
the jail, which was yawning for us, and which might yawn still more 
widely tomorrow. 

When at last sleep came to me, I dreamed of being at home. And 
everything seemed so lifelike and natural there that it was a rude 
shock when I awoke to find myself where I was and what I was — a 
prisoner. 

We did not talk with the sheriff till we came to the breokfast-table. 
And then he assured us that he was not feeling particularly the worse 
for his unpleasant experience of the night before. We had not learn- 
ed all the particulars of the attack on him, but now he told us. 

He and Nannie, his daughter, had gone to the jail to take the pris- 
oners their supper. The jail consisted of one large room, with a row 
of cells across the back side for the most dangerous characters. 
Leaving his daughter at the outer door, the officer had gone inside 
to carry their suppers to the prisoners in the cells. Before leaving 
the inner door he had taken the precaution to lock it from the inside. 
But he carried the bunch of keys in his hand, so as to unlock the 
cells. While he was passing the supper into a cell, one of the outside 
prisoners stole up behind him and struck him on the head. 

Nannie Renfro, expecting nothing of the kind, happened to be 
looking outside, and did not see her father struck; nor did she hear 
him fall. But she looked a minute or two later, and saw him lying 
on the floor, and the prisoners rapidly unlocking the cells with his 
keys. Then she screamed for help. 

But for the time spent in unlocking the cell-doors and the grating 
door the prisoners might all have escaped. The sheriff had not worn 
his pistol into the jail, as he usually did; and for that reason the 
escaping prisoners were all unarmed. Once out, however, they would 
doubtless have gone through the house and secured the weapons there. 
And with the aid of those they could easily have secured all the oth- 
er weapons they needed. 

After breakfast the sheriff said to us: 

“Boys, this is going to be a busy day with me, and I shall have to 
leave you to entertain yourselves. I must ask you to stay close about 
the house, and in doors as much as possible. So far as I am con- 
cerned, you could ramble around as much as you please. But Judge 
Wheeler has pretty stern ideas, and if it came to his knowledge that 
you were running about town without having given bond he’d be 
pretty sure to call me before him in open court and order me to lock 
you up. So you can see that it’s much to your interest to lie pretty 


128 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


low just now. Don’t forget please, that you’re still prisoners, and 
under guard. I don’t know what the judge would say if he knew 
that I had left my daup-hter to guard you; but that’s just what I’m 
going to do. Nannie, here are your prisoners. Look after them.” 

will father,” the girl answered, coming forward. But she blush- 
ed and dropped her eyelids. After her father had gone she looked 
up and said, half shyly: 

“I won’t be a very strict guard. You don’t mind being my prison- 
ers, do you?” 

‘‘Indeed we don’t!” exclaimed Frank. “In fact, we’d rather be 
your prisoners than go scot-free.” 

The girl blushed again, and laughed shyly. But it was easy to see 
that she was pleased. She was brown-haired and brown-eyed and 
demure, and rather small. When the color played over her cheeks 
she looked so pretty that I envied Frank his ability to make her 
blush. I fully intended to say some pretty thing to her myself; but 
though I was usually readier with my tongue than Frank I failed 
to think of anything suitable at the time. 

We remained at the sheriff’s residence during the whole of this 
day. At noon Renfro told us that he had tried to have a talk with 
Judge Wheeler, but had failed to find a suitable opportunity. He 
would try again in the afternoon, however. Old Mr. Gaines and his 
wife, whom we had rafted across the Cowhouse, were both in town, 
ready to testify in our behalf. 

Not long after dinner the old couple stopped in to visit us, and 
remained an hour or so, talking over our experiences and theirs since 
we had seen them, and before. Both assured us that they were ready 
to do everything they could to help us out of our trouble. 

On going away they returned to the court-house to listen to the 
proceedings there, and to be ready, if occasion offered, to brace up 
our evidence with theirs. After they were gone, we expected Ren- 
fro to send for us; but the summons failed to come. 

Frank and I found various ways to amuse ourselves during the day. 
Newt, who was rather shy of women, remained in our room, reading. 
But we two spent much of our time where Nannie and her mother 
were, sometimes in the parlor, sometimes in the dining-room and 
sometimes in the kitchen, helping to wash the dishes, or peel pota- 
toes, or shuck roasting-ears. With these pastimes we forgot our 
troubles, and joked much about the fact that we were prisoners, with 
only a pretty girl to guard us. 

When the sheriff came home, after court had adjourned for the 
day, I easily read from his face, before he uttered a word, that he 
had no favorable news for us. 

^ “Well, boys, I talked with the judge. But that’s all the good it 
did. Judge Wheeler is one of the most peculiar characters I’ve ever 
had any dealings with. Take him outside of the court-room, and he’s 
one of the kindest-hearted men I’ve ever known. In fact, he’s kind- 
hearted enough on the bench till he comes to decide a case. Then he 
freezes up as hard as an iceberg. He prides himself that he never 
allows his feelings to influence his judgment in the least. He likes 
nothing better than riding rough-shod over his own feelings. I’ve 
heard him insist more than once that the judge and the man should 
be distinct — as distinct as two men.” 

“From what you say, I can easily guess that he refused to do any- 
thing for us,” remarked Frank. 

“That’s just about the size of it, boys, I’m sorry to have to tell you. 
I explained to him what old Mr. Gaines would testify to. He con- 
sidered the matter a minute, then decided that he could not release 
you on that testimony. He admitted that the new evidence corrobo- 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


129 


rates your story, and strengthens it. But he insisted that that’s not 
what is needed. He says the only question is whether the cattle you 
drove off belong to you. All the evidence except yours proves that 
they belong to 'Hart. The only evidence to the contrary is your own; 
and as you’re all interested parties he insists that your ownership 
should be established by other testimony. 

“Then I told him how promptly you three boys came to my assis- 
tance last night, and that you probably prevented all the prisoners 
from escaping, and perhaps several murders before the matter was 
ended. And what do you suppose he said? 

“He demanded to know what you three were doing outside the jail. 
I explained that I was trying to save your feelings, and I can assure 
you that he looked anything but pleased. In fact, I half expected 
him to reprove me sharply for favoring you, and then give me per- 
emptory orders to lock you up. But he didn’t. If your case should 
come before him again, no telling what he might order.” 

“Then, for mercy’s sake, let’s not have it come before him again if 
we can help it,” I. put in, hastily, alarmed at the prospect. 

“I wish we’d had our examining trial before a justice of the peace,” 
said Frank. “He couldn’t have treated us worse, and he might have 
treated us better.” 

“Well, I think we can work the matter all right, boys. I’ve not 
forgotten what you did last night, and what’s more, I don’t intend to 
forget. And I’m going to keep you out of jail as long as it’s at all 
possible. You can count on that. While the judge has decided that 
he can’t release you altogether on the new evidence, he has agreed 
to have you before him again to see if he can’t reduce your bonds 
on it. I believe he will — I’m pretty sure he will. He thinks he can 
hear you some time tomorrow, and Mr. Gaines and his wife have 
agreed to come back. 

“If he’ll reduce your bonds to about half, I think I can get bail for 
you tomorrow. And even if he doesn’t, I’ve got a well-to-do man 
out in the country that will sign all your bonds as soon as he comes 
home. But I don’t know just when he will come home.” 

We were not a little surprised. “Why, Mr. Renfro, who can that 
be?” inquired Newt. 

“His name is Evans. When he was a young fellow, about the age 
of Frank here, he got away from home, among strangers, and was 
arrested on some suspicion and thrown into jail. He tried to con- 
vince them that they had the wrong man, but they only laughed at 
him. They kept him locked up a month, till the right man happened 
to appear, then they turned him loose. Of course he was really en- 
titled to damages. And he could have got them, I’ve no doubt, if he’d 
brought suit. But he was only too glad to get away. 

“He was a sensitive fellow, like Travis here, and that month in 
jail nearly killed him. It rankles in his memory yet, like a thorn in 
the flesh, even after thirty years. He told me of that experience a 
day or two after I was elected sheriff, the first time, and he warned 
me to be cautious. Then he said to me: ‘Renfro, if it ever devolves 
upon you to jail anybody that you have good reason to believe inno- 
cent, don’t do it — don’t do it. Send for me, and I’ll sign his bond.’ 

“I sent out there last night, and asked Evans to come in right 
away. But he’s off on a trip to San Antone. He may get back in 
a day or two. But I’ve left word with his family, and I’m sure he’ll 
come the minute he gets home. I think there’s no doubt but that 
we shall be able to arrange the matter somehow.” 

“I hope so; I certainly do,” said I. 

“That judge is a flint-hearted creature,” the sheriff went on. “I 
tried to convince him that, even supposing you three had been guilty 


130 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


of driving off three long-horns from somebody’s drove, you ought to 
be set at liberty for preventing a jail-delivery. ‘Now, Renfro,’ he 
said, ‘you’re letting your feelings run away with your judgment.’ 
That was so cold-blooded that it provoked me a little, -and I demand- 
ed to know if he didn’t think that the service you had rendered the 
state by keeping seventeen criminals from escaping would more than 
counterbalance the mistake of driving off three cattle. He assured 
me that he certainly did think. so. But he insisted that neither judge 
nor jury can rightly take any account of what a man has done for 
the state. Their province is to determine whether or not the man 
has done anything against the state, and to punish him or set him 
at liberty accordingly. 

“He admitted, though, that the governor, if application were made 
to him for a pardon, might well consider the other side. And he 
even went so far as to tell me that if an application for a pardon for 
you were brought to him he would not only sign it, but would write 
a letter to the governor, urging him to grant it.” 

That provoked me. “We’re very much obliged to his high-and- 
mightiness,” I said angrily; “but we’re no more criminals than he is, 
and we’re no more likely to be convicted than he is, and we’re in no 
more danger of needing a pardon than he is.” 

“That’s right,” spoke up Newt. “And if he’d had sense enough to 
hammer sand in a rat-hole he’d have told us to go, without puttin’ 
us to all this trouble.” 

“Well, he’s got sense enough. Judge Wheeler has,” the sheriff said. 
“But he has certainly got a lot of eccentricity mixed with it. And 
that’s the kind of a man we’ve got to deal with. It may be a great 
thing to have a legal mind; but it seems to me that a man may some- 
times be like the Indian’s pole — so straight that he leans the other 
way. But things will come out all right sooner or later. I’ve no doubt.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 


A SENSATION IN COURT. 


W E spent another night very much as we had spent the first one 
in Renfro’s house. A deputy-sheriff came in and occupied 
the bed with Newt. But both he and the sheriff were careful 
to explain that he was not there as a guard, but because there was 
no other place for him to sleep. 

“What do you think of little Miss Nannie Renfro?” inquired the 
deputy, after we had all gone to bed. 

We all thought very well indeed of Miss Nannie, and said so. 
Frank was especially enthusiastic over her. 

“You think she’s a timid little creature, don’t you?” asked the 
deputy. 

“She certainly is pretty timid,”, I answered. 

“That’s just where you miss it. She looks like she’d run from a 
mouse, and scream at the sight of a spider. But that’s only Nannie’s 
way. She is a modest little thing. But she’s not afraid. Would you 
believe it? That shy little girl can shoot like a cowboy. In fact, she 
learnt it from cowboys — some cousins of hers that live out here a 
few miles. Her father never taught her anything of the kind. But 
she used to visit her uncle, out on the ranch, and the boys made a 
pet of her. They found out that she’s fond of a pistol, and they let 
her shoot to her heart’s content. She’s a good revolver-shot. And 
grit — she’s got more grit than nine-tenths of the men.” 

“Why do you think so?” Frank inquired. 

“I don’t think so. I know so. You see, boys, this was not the first 
jail-delivery that has been attempted here. The other one happened 
very much like this; but Renfro was away from home, and the man 
that got knocked senseless in the jail was a deputy-sheriff, a fellow 
named Adkins that Renfro had left in charge of the prisoners. At 
that time — it was about a year ago — there was a notorious desper- 
ado in jail here. You’ve heard of him, I guess. His name is Edsell 
—Bill Edsell.” 

“Heard of him!” exclaimed Frank. “Why, we rafted him across 
the Cowhouse River.” 

“Oh, you’ve seen ’im, then?” 

“No, we’ve never seen him,” I answered. “That is, I don’t suppose 
we have. What does he look like?” 

The deputy described him, and then we knew that we had actually 
seen the desperado twice, once at the mill in the mountains, and 
again two or three days later with the cattle-thieves. After we had 
told the deputy of those experiences he said: 

“Well, that same Bill Edsell was in this jail a year ago. Renfro 
had arrested him a few miles from here. It was the only time, I 
guess, that Bill was ever arrested. A few men have lost their lives 
trying to take him; but Renfro got the drop on him and Bill wilted 
down. Renfro knew what a dangerous character he was, and he 
handcuffed him and locked him in a cell. But Bill picked the locks 
of his handcuffs, and got them off and passed them to the prisoners 
outside. And when Adkins went into the jail, they hit him over the 
head with them and knocked him senseless. 


132 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


“Nannie had been at the door; but one of the prisoners had asked 
her for something, and she had returned to the kitchen for it. When 
she got back to the jail-door she saw Adkins lying on the floor, and 
the prisoners busy with his keys. 

“If there had been any men about, she might have screamed for 
help like she did last night. But, as it happened, her mother and 
the children had gone visiting a few minutes before, and there wasn’t 
another soul on the place, the grating-door was locked, but it could 
be unlocked from the inside, and she knew that the prisoners would 
be all out and gone before she could go for help. 

“So she ran back to the house, and when the prisoners came to 
unlock the grating door, Nannie met ’em with one of her father’s six- 
shooters. the man with the keys was going right ahead, without 
paying any attention to her. But the little girl cocked the six-shooter, 
aimed it point-blank at his right eye and said: 

“‘The instant that key touches the lock, I pull the trigger!’” 

“The man looked at her and saw that she meant business and then 
he backed down. One after another tried it, but she kept saying that 
when the key touched the lock she would pull the trigger, and not 
a rascal of ’em had the sand to touch the lock. 

“Finally Bill — the terrible Bill Edsell himself — tried it, after curs- 
ing the others for cowards. But when it came to the scratch, even 
Bill weakened, and didn’t dare touch the key to the lock. He admit- 
ted afterwards that the six-shooter aimed straight at his eye proved 
a little too much for his nerves. He was reckless enough to take any 
kind of a risk, but not reckless enough to buck against certain death. 

“Bill and the whole gang tried every way they could to scare the 
girl, but there wasn’t any scare to her. She didn’t budge an inch. 
She held the whole gang under her six-shooter for half an hour till 
a neighbor’s children happened in, and then she sent them for help. 
And when help did come, and the men all began to praise her for a 
brave girl, she just ran off and hid herself. She don’t even like to 
talk about it.” 

We discussed the subject at some length, and finally Frank inquired : 

“If Bill Edsell was in jail here, how does it come that he’s at large 
now?” 

“Oh yes ; I was going to tell you that. The sheriff of another coun- 
ty came here and got ’im, and Bill turned some kind of a trick on the 
road and got away. And he’s been on the range ever since. Guess 
he’ll be pretty hard to rope in next time.” 

The story that the deputy had told us of Nannie Renfro’s courage 
was a surprising one to me, and I thought of it not a little before fall- 
ing asleep. Next morning, when she and I happened to be in the 
parlor, she noticed me looking at her curiously, laughingly. 

“What are you laughing at me for?” she demanded. 

“I’m not laughing at you,” I hastened to assure her. “I’m laugh- 
ing to think how badly three fellows were fooled.” 

“I don’t understand,” she answered. 

“Why, when your father told us he was leaving you to guard us, 
we thought it was all a joke, and that if we’d felt like it we could 
have walked off and left you. But it’s lucky for us we didn’t try to 
walk off. We might have heard some bullets whizzing after us.” 

But, so far from being pleased the girl pouted and turned her back 
to me. 

“Somebody has been telling you about— that.” she said, resentfully 
“I wish I’d never touched a pistol — almost. Wherever I go since that 
happened everybody looks at me just like I was a little catamount 
with claws. And I’m not— any such thing! I couldn’t hurt anybody 
— ^unless I just had to. I couldn’t hurt a grasshopper.” 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


133 


It must be confessed I liked her better for this modest disclaimer 
than if she had been proud of what she had done. 

Soon after breakfast the sheriff left his home for the court-house. 
He gave us no instructions before going; but we understood the pru- 
dence of keeping indoors as much as possible, that reports of our 
liberty might not travel abroad. 

But about ten o’clock two deputies came for us. They were new 
men to us. Neither of them knew anything, except that we were 
wanted at the court-house. Nannie Renfro came in just as we were 
starting out. 

“Your father has sent for us,” Frank told her in reply to her ques- 
tioning look. “Perhaps he wants to take us before the judge again. 
No telling what that judge will do with us this time. He may hang 
us.” 

“I just wish I could be in Judge Wheeler’s place for a few minutes. 
I’d tell you to go so quick it would make your heads swim,” declared 
the girl indignantly. 

“Then I wish you could be in the judge’s place,” Frank answered. 
“That kind of swimming in the head would be just the thing I’d 
like about now. We’d soon be on the road toward home.” 

But the girl was not altogether pleased. “I don’t think you ought 
to be so eager to run away,” she said demurely, as if a little hurt. 
“Since you became my prisoners, I’ve been just as nice to you as I 
know how to be.” 

“That’s right; you have,” spoke up Newt. 

“Of course you have,” said I. “You haven’t shot a single one of us.” 

She looked at me indignantly. 

“That you have been nice — indeed you have!” Frank assured her. 
“You needn’t pay any attention to his jokes. But that’s just a good 
reason for us not to trouble you any longer than we have to. But 
we’d better not keep these men waiting.” 

We went out, the five of us, and were soon at the court-house. 
Sheriff Renfro met us at the door. 

“You could have come just as well by yourselves, boys,” he half 
whispered. “But it’s not prudent to have you seen going about un- 
guarded. Go in there and take a seat with our guard. The judge 
says he’ll call you before him again just as soon as he gets through 
with the case he’s hearing now. Old Mr. Gaines and his wife are 
both in there, ready to testify for you.” 

We entered the court-room and found a seat by a window. One 
of the deputies went away to attend to other duties, but the other 
remained to guard us. Frank was next to the window, and I was 
between him and Newt. Newt was whispering with the deputy and 
Frank was gazing down into the square. 

I busied myself with watching the proceedings of the court, and 
particularly Rhodes, the prosecuting attorney. He was cross-exam- 
ining a witness, and I noticed that his manner was just as warlike 
toward this man as it had been toward me. Then I understood that 
it was simply the lawyer’s way, perhaps the only way he knew, and 
by no means an evidence of ill-feeling. 

As I sat there, reflecting on our situation, I began to feel decided- 
ly gloomy. At the best, as it seemed to me, my father, and perhaps 
a few of the neighbors for witnesses, would have to come all the way 
out here to rescue me from my unseemly predicament. And possi- 
bly, when they did come, they would find us lying in jail. It would 
be a humiliating ending of an ox-hunt. 

“Frank,” I said, moodily, “it was an unlucky day for you when I 
stopped at your house — I and my troublesome old ox. I should think 
you’d be sorry you ever heard tell of us.” 


134 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


“No such thing!” he answered, half indignantly. “I’m not that 
kind of a fellow at all. Fact is, I despise people that can’t have a 
little run of bad luck without trying to saddle the blame on somebody 
else. I don’t believe we’ve done anything to be blamed for — anything 
we didn’t have a perfect right to do. But if we did, I’m just as much 
to blame as you are. And then, as I told you once before when you 
talked like that, it might have been worse. It’s bad enough for three 
of us. What would it have been if you’d got into this scrape by 
yourself? No, sir, we’ll not shirk. We’ll all stand together. We’ll 
go to jail together if we have to, and then we’ll get out and laugh 
over it together.” 

He resumed his gazing down into the square. A few minutes la- 
ter I saw him lean forward suddenly, eagerly. The next moment he 
leaped to his feet, uttering some half-suppressed exclamation that 
I failed to catch, and started for the door! ' 

Our guard, taken unawares, supposed that one of his prisoners 
was escaping. He threw out his foot, and Frank, tripping over it, 
fell heavily to the floor. But with an angry exclamation he bounded 
up and rushed on, with the deputy after him and reaching for him. 
Seeing that Frank would get to the door first, the officer shouted: 

“Stop ’im there, somebody! Don’t let ’im get away! Grab ’im! 
Hold ’im!” 

Instantly the whole court-room was in an uproar. The crowd 
sprang to their feet excitedly, to catch a glimpse of the escaping 
prisoner. I sprang up with the others, half believing that my friend 
had suddenly turned crazy. 

Several men at the door tried to stop him. The first one he flung 
aside so violently that the man fell to the floor. But others quickly 
fastened themselves upon Frank. He struggled hard to get through, 
pushing and dragging them about. 

“Let me go! Get out of my way!” he cried, loudly enough to be 
heard above all the tumult. 

But the pursuing deputy seized him, and three or four other de- 
puties rushed up and threw themselves upon him. And presently 
the whole knot of them went to the floor together. 

“What under the sun is the matter with the boy?” demanded Newt 
of me. But I could not answer. We stood watching the struggling 
group. 

Presently they opened out, and all rose to their feet. When I first 
got a good view of Frank he was standing very red in the face, in 
the midst of the group of officers. 

“But I tell you I saw my sister down there, and I want to stop 
her before she gets away!” he was fairly shouting, angrier than I 
had ever seen him before. 

“Where?” inquired a deputy, in incredulous tones. 

“She was in a spring-wagon, and the wagon was driving out at the 
north-west corner of the square. She was leaning out and looking 
back when I saw her. What did you stop me for?” 

The officers exchanged significant glances. Plainly they believed 
that Frank had really tried to escape, and had invented this story 
to cover his failure. 

“Where did you see the wagon?” inquired the chief deputy. 

“Come over here!” cried Frank. And he almost dragged the officer 
to a north window. 

“Well, where is it?” demanded the deputy, after looking down. 
“No spring-wagon down there.” 

“Of course there’s no spring-wagon down there!” Frank almost 
shouted, in angry disgust. “It was out of sight an hour ago! Send 
somebody after it, if you won’t let me go. Stella would be just the 
witness for us — the very witness we need.” 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


135 


The chief deputy shrugged his shoulders and smiled cynically, as 
if to say he could see through all such tricks as that. 

‘Tf you’re going to do anything do it, and don’t be all day about it!” 
Frank exclaimed, impatiently. I had never seen him so badly work-- 
ed up. “If you wait, you’ll never find them in the world. I don’t 
know where they’re going.” 

All business had been suspended, and there was still no little 
bustle and confusion in the court-room. But above it all could now 
be heard the calm voice of the judge: 

“Mr. Sheriff, I suggest that you do as the young man says, and 
send somebody after that spring-wagon. There’s no doubt that such 
a wagon passed through town just before this commotion started up. 

I noticed it myself.” 

The deputy started to 'comply. But just then Renfro, who had 
been out somewhere, came hurrying in to learn what was the matter. 
Somebody had informed him that a prisoner had tried to escape. 
Frank quietly explained, and the sheriff, turning to one of his depu- 
ties, said: 

“John, go down there, mount the first horse you can lay your hands 
on, and follow that spring-wagon and bring it back, and every one 
of its occupants. Put them all under arrest if they won’t come with- 
out it. And be quick as you can, too. We’ll soon see whether there’s 
any mistake or not.” 

“Yes, sir! All right, sir!” answered the deputy, as he passed 
through the door, almost at a run. 

A little later, looking down from the window, I saw him spring 
upon one of the numerous horses hitched to the court-house fence, 
and gallop away. 

The sheriff now called the court-room to order again, and business 
went on as before. I half expected the judge to say something by 
way of rebuke, but he spoke not a word, either good or bad, con- 
cerning the disturbance. 

Frank came back and sat down in his place by the window, and 
the deputy came back to guard us. Frank, it was easy to see, was 
still not in the best humor. 

“If those idiots had let me alone, I could have caught that spring- 
wagon,” he muttered to me, resentfully. “They must think I’m 
mighty anxious to get away — the greenies! I wouldn’t run off if 
they sicked the dogs on me. Wonder what Stella’s doing away out 
here, anyhow.” 

“Are you sure you were not mistaken, Frank? Maybe you just ■ 
saw somebody that looked like her.” 

He turned on me, almost indignantly. “Think I don’t know my 
own sister? How could I be mistaken? Stella looks like herself, and 
like nobody else in the world.” 

“That’s so,” I had to admit. “But the girl you saw was a good 
distance away. And what could your sister be doing out here?” 

“Well now, that’s more than I know. Let’s see. Father and moth- 
er must have come home, and Mary and Oliver may have come with 
them. Mary is my married sister, you know, and Oliver is her hus- 
band — Oliver Oldham. After staying with the folks a while, Mary 
and Oliver must have started out here somewhere, and Stella must 
have come with them. But where can they be going?” 

“Your sisters may be on a hunt for their poor, lost brother?” I 
suggested. 

Frank grinned. His good humor was returning. 

“Their poor, lost brother rather needs somebody to hunt him up. 
But it’s more likely they’re out here to visit some of Oliver’s kinfolks. 

I don’t know much about my brother-in-law’s people. I’ve never lived 


136 


A C R O OK ED TRAIL 


close to him, or any of them. My sister got acquainted with him 
while she was teaching school, down near Waco. And the only time 
I ever saw him was last fall, when he came up to marry her and take 
her off. But I do remember hearing him say that he had a married 
sister living out here west of the Colorado somewhere. Yes, that 
must be the way of it. Lucky thing for us they happened along, too. 
Stella’s the very witness we need. I’d rather like to see father just 
now; but as a witness for both of us — for all of us, Stella will be 
better. She saw you and your steer, and father never did. Yes, sir, 
it’s a rare piece of good luck for us. Takes that deputy a long time 
to catch them, though.” 

We both waited impatiently, fidgeting about, and looking out at the 
window every minute or two. Most of the other people in the court- 
room were also waiting, I think; for I could see them glancing often 
toward the door. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


ORDERED TO JAIL. 

H alf an hour dragged by, and still the spring wagon was not 
in sight. I was beginning to feel sure that Frank must have 
been mistaken. But the deputy had not returned, and until 
he did return there was room for hope. 

“Oh, he’s fearfully slow!” Frank grumbled, impatiently. “Why 
didn’t they let me go alone? I could have caught that wagon on foot 
long, long before now.” 

Gradually, after an hour had crept by, the expectant lock on the 
faces of the people around us had given place to cynical smiles. 

“They wa’n’t no sich a wagon. I’ll just bet a ginger-cake they 
wa’n’t,” one man whispered to another in the seat behind us. “That 
young chap did actually make a dash for liberty, and he’s just tryin’ 
to pull the wool over the sheriff’s eyes.” 

“But the jedge, he seen it too. Didn’t you hear ’im say he did?” 
the other man whispered back. 

Just at this point Frank, who had been leaning far but at the 
window, drew his head in to announce, triumphantly: 

“Well, it’s in sight at last.” 

He spoke loudly enough for the people close around us to hear. 
And the news went buzzing through the crowded court-room till a 
deputy-sheriff had to pound his desk and call for order. 

Gazing down into the square I saw a black-topped spring wagon 
drive up to the court-house fence, the deputy-sheriff riding by it. 
As we afterwards learned he had at first followed the wrong road. 
The wagon stopped, and a man I had never seen before sprang out 
at one side, and a girl leaped lightly to the ground from the other 
side. 

There was no mistaking that slender, alert young figure. It was 
Stella Booth. Short as was the time I had known her I should have 
recognized her instantly among a thousand people. 

She looked up. Her brother waved to her, and so did I. We now 
hurried down stairs to meet them, accompanied by our guard. We 
found them at the court-house door, and some excited greetings fol- 
lowed. Frank’s surmise as to how Stella came to be here proved to 
be exactly correct, and Newt and I were introduced to Oldham and 
his wife. The traveling party having learned from Frank’s letters 
before starting from home that we were out in this part of the coun- 
try were less surprised to see Frank and -me than we were to see them. 

After matters had been fully explained on both sides we all climb- 
ed the broad stairway to the court-room, and all sat down together. 
At first I was slightly embarrassed over the predicament Stella had 
come and found us in; but she was so sympathetic and so indignant 
over the treatment we had received that I quickly began to feel myself 
a martyr rather than a blunderer. 

A few minutes after we had seated ourselves the judge announced: 
“Mr. Sheriff, if there is any new evidence in the case of the State 
against Lindsay, Booth and Holloway, you may now bring those three 
prisoners before me.” 

Accompanied by our guard we walked forward and occupied the 
chairs for persons on trial. I glanced around, and saw that the court- 


138 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


room, already pretty well filled, was rapidly being crowded with 
people. Our arrest here had caused a sensation in this quiet little 
town; and the report having gone abroad that new developments were 
expected in our case everybody had come to the court-house that 
could possibly get there. The big room was soon packed to the doors 
and windows with men, women and children. Among the crowd I 
caught sight of Nannie Renfro’s face. 

Sheriff Renfro now came up behind Frank. “Shall we put Mr. 
Gaines on the stand first, or your sister?” 

“Stella first, I guess.” 

The officer now turned to the crowded court-room and called out: 

“Miss Stella Booth will please come forward!” 

I turned my head and watched the girl walk down the aisle. Her 
cheeks were flushed prettily from excitement, and her eyes were 
downcast. But her little heels clicked the floor resolutely, almost de- 
fiantly. She seemed just a trifle shy and embarrassed when, after 
being sworn, she took her seat in the witness-chair. But at the first 
Question she turned and looked the judge squarely in the eye. Tense 
silence prevailed throughout the court-room. 

Judge Wheeler himself, in the absence of any lawyer to represent us, 
asked questions to bring out the facts for our side. After inquiring 
the witness’s name, where she lived, and how she came to be here, 
he said: 

“Prisoners, will all of you please stand up?” We stood. 

“Now, Miss Booth, tell me whether you recognize any of them.” 

“Yes, sir, I do — two of them. This one on my right is my brother 
Frank. The one next to him is a friend of ours, though we haven’t 
known him very long — Mr. Travis Holloway.” 

Then the judge questioned her as to how she came to know me. 
She told of the coming of the spotted ox, and then of my coming in 
search of him two or three mornijigs later. She then explained how 
it happened that her brother and I had started off together, trailing 
three cattle instead of one. 

“Can you describe any of those cattle?” inquired the judge. 

“I think I can describe all of them, sir.” And she proceeded to do 
so, commencing with the young ones. Presently the judge stopped 
her with a gesture. 

“Mr. Sheriff,” he said, “have you a description of those three cattle?” 

“Not an accurate description, your honor. But the cattle are close 
by. I can get one very soon if it’s needed.” 

“Well, never mind at present. I don’t think it will be needed. You 
may proceed now. Miss Booth.” 

Stella went on with her description. When she had finished with 
the young cattle the court remarked: 

“You know those two pretty well.” 

“I ought to, sir,” she answered, modestly. “I ought to know every 
hair on them. I milked their mammies from the time they were lit- 
tle things till they were weaned.” 

“And concerning this spotted steer, do you recall any particulars 
of his appearance?” 

The girl described Lep almost as minutely as I could have done. 
“And he had a raised brand on his left hip,” she said in conclusion. 
“The letters looked like W H; but only the H was raised so that you 
could tell certainly what it was.” 

“You seem to be a pretty careful observer,” remarked the judge. 
“I congratulate your friends on having so bright and intelligent a 
witness. Mr. Rhodes, do you care to ask this young lady any ques- 
tions?” 

The prosecuting attorney looked at his notes. I was indignant at 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


139 


the thought of his bellowing at Stella as he had at us and other wit- 
nesses. But, to my surprise, he was very respectful, both in the 
questions asked and in the manner of asking them. I heard the ex- 
planation that afternoon. 

“Did you notice how polite Rhodes was to the young lady?’’ a de- 
puty sheriff inquired of me. 

“Yes, I did. Why can’t he be as nice to everybody?” 

“He will be — some of these days. When he was first elected pros- 
ecuting attorney he tried to bulldoze a girl on the witness stand. A 
few minutes later her brother caught him out on the square and 
emptied his six-shooter at him. He wasn’t touched, Rhodes wasn’t, 
but he was nearly scared to death. And since then he minds his 
manners when women are concerned.” 

But one new point did the prosecuting attorney bring out in his 
cross-examination. 

“How did you happen to notice that spotted steer so closely? Are 
you sure you didn’t get that description from your brother or young 
Holloway just before you were called to the stand?” 

“Yes, sir; I’m very sure I didn’t get a word of description from 
anybody — today. You see, we knew the steer was a stray when he 
first stopped at our house, and my brother was going to post him. 
We went out to where he was standing, and looked him over carefully 
to get a good description of him. Then we went back to the house 
and wrote it down.” 

“So I see — so I see,” remarked the attorney, as he referred to his 
notes again. 

A few more questions, all of them unimportant, ended the cross- 
examination, and the witness was excused. 

As she passed back to her seat, she flashed us a look of triumph 
out of her dark eyes, which said as plainly as words: “They didn’t 
confuse me.” 

Mr. Gaines was now called to the stand. He told how Frank and 
I had rafted him across the Cowhouse, and managed to bring out the 
fact that we had refused to accept the promised five dollars, and the 
reason. At this a buzz of approval ran through the crowded court- 
room. The witness also testified to what we had told him about hunt- 
ing for three lost cattle. 

Mrs. Gaines was not called, her testimony being considered unnec- 
essary by the sheriff, and also by the court. 

After the old man had been excused the judge sat very still, seem- 
ingly lost in thought for a minute or two. Silence — the silence of 
suspense — reigned throughout the court-room. Nobody moved or 
spoke; and even the breathing itself seemed suppressed. 

Finally the judge leaned forward and addressed the prosecutor: 

“Mr. Rhodes, do you know of any reason why the case against 
these three young men should not be dismissed, and the prisoners 
discharged from further custody?” 

“None whatever, your honor.” 

“You may have noticed, Mr. Rhodes,” the court went on, “that? 
while the young lady testifies that two of these cattle probably be- 
long to her father, there was not a word in her testimony to prove 
that the third animal belongs to either of the prisoners. Consequently 
young Holloway still has nothing to prove his ownership of the 
spotted steer.” 

I stared at him, aghast. Was he about to release my companions, 
and still hold me on that flimsy pretext? 

“Yes, I noticed that, your honor,” the prosecutor rose to say. “But 
at the same time I am aware that there isn’t a jury in Texas that 
would waste a minute in acquitting Holloway after listening to Miss 


140 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


Booth’s evidence. I would like to be excused from prosecuting that 
kind of a case, if it please the court.” 

“Yes, yes; I suppose so — I suppose so,” admitted the judge, thought- 
fully. But soon he spoke again: 

“I’ve no doubt you’re right there, Mr. Rhodes. But there’s one 
point I must insist upon. And that is that Miss Booth positively 
identify the three cattle the prisoners drove off as being the ones that 
she has just described. So the court’s instructions to the sheriff are 
as follows: 

“But first I want to inquire, Mr. Sheriff, if the three animals these 
prisoners are charged with stealing are still in your possession?” 

“They are, your honor. , They are in the pen behind the livery 
stable.” 

“Very good. Then the court’s instructions to you are that you con- 
duct the witness. Miss Booth, to that pen and let her see the cattle. 
If she positively identifies all three as being the animals described 
in her testimony, you will promptly discharge all the prisoners from 
further custody. If she identifies two of the cattle, the younger ones, 
but not the big, spotted steer, you will discharge her brother and 
Lindsay, but young Holloway must be held for the grand jury. But 
if, for any reason, the witness should be unable to identify any of the 
cattle, then all the prisoners must be held as before instructed. 

“And another word to you, Mr. Renfro. It has come to the know- 
ledge of this court that some undue leniency has been shown these 
prisoners during the time you have had charge of them. Now I want 
to say to you that this court expects you to keep all prisoners in your 
custody in the safest place. And the safest place, the only really 
safe place in fact, is the county jail. Do you understand the court’s 
instructions?” 

“I do, your honor,” growled the officer. 

“And it should be unnecessary for me to remind you that this court 
has done such a thing as to send a sheriff to his own jail for doing 
what he thought was right instead of what the court had instructed. 
Is a word to the wise sufficient, Mr. Sheriff?” 

“It is, your honor,” answered Renfro. But from the way he snap- 
ped out “your honor,” I knew he would far rather have said, “you old 
fool!” And his face flamed a fiery red at the court’s implied threat. 

“Very well,” said the judge. “You may now adjourn court till two 
o’clock.” 

“The old rascal!” I muttered to my fellow-prisoners. “He’s de- 
termined to get us behind the bars!” 

“Yes, he is,” said Newt. “If I have to go to jail. I’d like to have 
him in there with me about five minutes. I’d hammer some of the 
nonsense out of ’im.” 

“Oh, never mind, boys,” said Frank. “All that talk don’t amount 
to shucks. Stella will identify the cattle — every hoof of them. Never 
fear about that. And Judge Wheeler knows it as well as I do.” 

As we started out of the court-room, still guarded by officers, Stel- 
da and her sister and brother-in-law joined us. 

“Wasn’t it a piece of good luck that we happened to pass through 
here today, to help you out of your trouble?” Stella said to me. 

“It wasn’t luck; it was Providence working in our behalf,” I as- 
sured her. And I certainly meant every word of it. 

“Well, boys,” said the sheriff, now coming up to us, “I guess we 
might as well walk over to the pen together, and have done with this 
troublesome matter. I’m glad you’re getting out of the tangle at 
last.” 

“On going down stairs we found the crowd, or part of it that had 
preceded us, waiting for us in the court-house yard. And as our 
party crossed the square toward the livery-stable, the whole crowd 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


141 


followed us. They had heard the court’s instructions, and were cu- 
rious to see if Stella could identify the cattle, and by so doing set us 
at liberty. 

To our no small surprise, close behind us came the lawyers, the 
prosecuting attorney, and even Judge Wheeler himself. The sight of 
the judge was rather unpleasant to me; for I could not forget his 
harsh instructions to the sheriff concerning us. Very glad was I that 
we were about to escape from the ogre’s clutches at last. 

‘‘Do you think you can identify Lep?” I inquired of Stella, as we were 
passing around the livery-stable. For in spite of the fact that we were 
still prisoners, and under guard, she had placed herself between Frank 
and me. 

“Certainly I can,” she assured me. “I didn’t see him many times, 
but he looks so different from the common run of steers that I believe 
I’d know him among a thousand. I’m glad I noticed him as closely 
as I did, because — What’s the matter now?” 

By this time the advance portion of the crowd, which seemed to 
number every soul in town, had passed round the livery-stable and 
stopped at the pen behind it. And everybody was staring in blank 
amazement. 

“Well, where are your cattle, Mr. Sheriff?” inquired the prosecut- 
ing attorney, now coming up, with the judge. 

The sheriff stood like one struck dumb. “They were here this morn- 
ing,” he finally replied. 

“But they don’t seem to be here now,” remarked the judge, sweep- 
ing the empty pen with his glasses. 

The discovery that the three cattle were missing created a sensa- 
tion in the big crowd, which promptly surged up to the fence to see 
for itself. 

“Ask the livery-stable man about ’em, Renfro,” called out a voice. 

“Yes, ask Wilson,” spoke up another voice. “I saw ’em here not 
long ago. Maybe he moved ’em to some other pen, or sent ’em off 
to grass.” 

“Here comes Wilson now,” said a third voice, as the livery-stable 
keeper pushed his way through the crowd. He, too, stared incredu- 
lously when he came to the rail-fence and saw nothing inside of it. 

“I left ’em here about two hours ago, when I went over to the court- 
house,” he explained. “And that’s all I know about ’em.” 

Now there was a greater sensation than before. While it was at 
its height two small boys, who had been playing not far off, wormed 
their way through the crowd till they reached the sheriff. 

“Are you all lookin’ for them cattle that was in this pen, Mr. Ren- 
fro?” one of them asked. 

“Yes, we are, Benny,” answered the sheriff, directing his attention 
downward. “Do you know anything about them?” 

“Yes, we do. We saw two men open the gate and drive ’em out, 
and then drive ’em off.” 

“What road did they take, Benny?” 

The little boy pointed toward the south — the road we ourselves had 
come. 

“And what did the men look like?” the sheriff asked. 

The boys started to describe them, but before they had uttered 
many words Newt burst out excitedly: 

“It was Ame Watson and Ben Dankens! Of course it was! I 
could have told you that at the start.” 

Further questions proved that Newt was right. Ame and Ben had 
taken advantage of the fact that the livery-stable keeper and nearly 
everybody else had gone to the court-house to turn the cattle out and 
run them off. 

When the news had spread over the crowd, as it very soon did, that 


142 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


the men who had accused us of stealing the cattle had themselves 
stolen them from the sheriff’s custody, the sensation that followed 
was something past describing. Even the judge and the prosecuting 
attorney seemed astounded at the turn affairs had taken. 

In discussing the matter before, Newt and Frank and I had won- 
dered that Ame and Ben, knowing as they must that Hart had stolen 
animals in his drove, had dared to drag us into court. And now we 
agreed, in the light of this latest development, that they had never 
really intended to do so. They had applied to the sheriff to get the 
cattle for them, and had got more than they bargained for when they 
were required to prosecute us. Tiring of the law’s tedious delays 
they had taken the three cattle and fled. 

“Well, Mr. Sheriff,” the judge finally remarked, “the witness is 
unable to identify the cattle, and you recollect what the court’s in- 
structions were with reference to the prisoners, do you not?” 

“Did you hear that?” muttered Frank. “He’s ordering us to be 
locked up!” 

I was thunderstruck — too much so to utter a word. 

“Do you mean, judge,” inquired the sheriff, “that in spite of what 
has just happened you expect me to drag these boys off and throw 
them into jail?” His voice trembled with indignation. 

“Those were certainly the court’s instructions; and I’m glad to see 
you’ve not forgotten them, Mr. Sheriff. All instructions issued by 
my court must be obeyed to the letter, or the disobedient party will 
feel the full weight of the court’s wrath.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


INTO THE WILDS. 


F or a little while after it had dawned upon my dazed faculties- 
that the jud^e was coolly ordering us to jail I stood like one in 
a stupor. We had all come out here confidently expecting to be 
set at liberty, and this cruel disappointment had met us instead. 
Freedom had seemed so near, but had suddenly taken wings. 

I felt the eyes of the whole crowd upon me, and Stella Booth’s eyes 
in particular. It would have been hard enough to go to jail private- 
ly ; but to be marched off in sight of all this multitude would be a 
hundred times worse. But for Stella’s kindly, half-tearful, half-in- 
dignant gaze, there is no telling what I might have said in my shame 
and humiliation. Hot anger burned in my heart at the injustice of 
it, and especially toward Judge Wheeler. But I clinched my fists, set 
my teeth hard together and stood calmly, defiantly. 

“But, judge,” the sheriff was protesting, “after what has taken 
place you’ll surely change your instructions, won’t you?” 

“Mr. Renfro, I am not on the bench at present, and my court can 
scarcely be said to be in existence just now. And of course a court 
not in existence can’t possibly change instructions issued when it was 
in existence. You heard what was said, Mr. Sheriff. The question 
is: Are you going to obey?” 

I watched Renfro, and waited anxiously for his reply. 

“Judge Wheeler,” he answered, speaking very deliberately, “you’re 
the judge of the circuit court, but I’m the sheriff of 'this county. I 
have some authority as well as you, and I propose to maintain it. 
These three prisoners are innocent yet, not only in fact, but also in 
the eyes of the law, and until they’re convicted some discretion is left 
to me as to how they shall be treated. You have ordered me to keep 
them safely and I will. But I’m the judge of what is safe-keeping. 
And you know as well as I do that they’re in no more danger of' 
being convicted of that crime than you or I. They’ve done me an 
important service, and the whole community and the state an impor- 
tant service, and I tell you bluntly that I have favored^ them, and 
that I expect to keep on favoring them. I’m trying to make bond 
for them. But until I do I’ll keep them safely. If necessary I’ll have 
them guarded day and night — at my own expense, understand. 

I was wonderfully relieved. For it was easy to tell from Renfro’s 
looks and tones that he had fully made up his mind and would be 
hard to move. But I wondered what the judge would say. 

“Oh well, if you prefer to guard them at your own expense, that’s 
no concern of the court’s, of course. Did you say you’re trying to- 


get bail for them, Mr. Renfro?’ 

“Yes. But their bonds are so large, and we’re all so poor out here, 
it’s an up-hill job. I can make bond for one of them and probably 
for two. But they prefer to stick together — all free, or none. I’ve 
got a strong man that will sign their bonds as soon as he comes home.” 

“So I see.” remarked the judge, thoughtfully. “Mr. Renfro, speak- 
ing not as the judge of the district court, but as Thomas A. Wheeler, 
private citizen, I want to ask if you will accept my signature on their 
bonds?” 

The sheriff stared, and so did we, and so did everybody else. 

“I will, your honor.” 


144 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


“Mr. Renfro,” remarked the judge, “it seems to me youVe held your 
office long enough to know that a judge ceases to be ‘your honor’ the 
moment court is adjourned.” 

“So I do, judge,” laughed the sheriif. “But you gave me such a 
shock I forgot myself. Are you serious about signing the bonds?” 

“Certainly I am. Have you got them made out? Then let’s go 
somewhere where we can find a pen. But I doubt if I’m worth fif- 
teen hundred dollars above debts and exemptions. Somebody else 
will be needed.” 

“I’ll sign their bonds,” spoke up the prosecutor. And then and there 
I freely forgave him for all those questions he had bellowed at me. 

“Mr. Rhodes,” observed the judge, “can’t you see that there might 
be some impropriety in a circuit attorney’s signing the bonds of pris- 
oners he may be called upon to prosecute?” 

“Yes, I can. And I can also see how improper it might be for^ a 
judge to put his name on the bonds of prisoners that may be tried 
before him. But as we both know beyond a doubt that these cases 
will never come to trial, the whole thing is a mere matter of form, 
and we can do as we please about it.” 

“If you need any more names, mine’s ready,” now called out a 
man we had never seen before. He was the leading merchant 
in the town. 

One after another offered their signatures, till more than a dozen 
signers had volunteered. 

The livery stable keeper invited all of them and Renfro to step 
into his office; and when they came out the sheriff informed us that, 
for the present, we were at liberty to go where we pleased. This was 
a wonderful relief to us. 

The first thing I did was to approach Judge Wheeler and thank 
him. “It was a great surprise to me,” I admitted. “I thought you 
were determined to have us behind bars.” 

“Well, I do like to have my instructions obeyed,” he answered. 
“But I always see to it that they don’t work an unnecessary hard- 
ship. I’m pretty strict, but I’m not so bad as some people think me. 
No, I’m not so bad.” 

I could readily agree with him now, though I should have found it 
hard to do so a short time before. 

Frank and I hunted up all who had signed our bonds, and after 
thanking them we assured them that they should not be put to any 
trouble or inconvenience by our failure to appear. 

When we came back to where Renfro was standing, talking to a 
group of men, the judge was saying: 

“That’s about as bold a piece of villainy as I ever heard of.” 

“I’ll have the sneaking rascals in jail before sundown tomorrow,” 
declared the sheriff, hotly. 

“If you can catch them,” qualified the prosecuting attorney. 

“I’ll catch them. Never fear about that — the scoundrels! I’d have 
put them under bond, or locked them up for witnesses, if I’d thought 
of their running away.” 

“Rather queer kind of an officer you are, Renfro,” remarked 
Rhodes, jokingly. “You arrest the owners of the cattle at the request 
of the thieves, and then keep them in durance vile while the thieves 
are running off with the cattle.” 

“After an experience or two of that kind, one can’t wonder that 
these young cattle-hunters chose to rely on their own efforts rather 
than on officers of the law to recover their stolen property,” observed 
the judge, smiling, and gazing around blandly through his glasses. 

Renfro winced, but said: “The sheriff admits that he permitted 
himself to be made a fool of. That isn’t half so strange, though, as 
that the honorable court, which of course is vastly wiser than the 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


145 


wisest sheriff, should have perpetuated the sheriff’s stupid blunder 
by holding the owners of the stolen cattle for the grand jury, and 
even ordering that they be kept in jail. And the prosecuting attor- 
ney, learned in the law, and zealous in enforcing it, aided and abet- 
ted the honorable court in perpetuating the sheriff’s blunder.” 

Judge Wheeler smiled again, not quite so blandly this time, it 
seemed to me. 

“We all blundered absurdly. There’s no denying that,” he admit- 
ted. “Such things have a tendency to destroy one’s confidence in the 
workings of human justice, so called.” 

“Well, I’m responsible for my blunder,” announced the sheriff. 
“Boys, go back to my house and make yourselves at home, and keep 
your horses in my stable, till I bring back your cattle. I’ll get them 
if they stay inside the state. And I’m sorry this thing happened. 
I feel as bad about it as any of you possibly can.” 

“Oh, that’s all past and gone. Never mind about it now,” said 
Frank. 

“As long as you didn’t actually jail us, there’s no great harm 
done,” I assured him. “I shouldn’t have liked to go home and tell 
that I’d spent a week or two locked up, even though I am entirely 
innocent.” 

“I’m glad I saved your feelings,” answered the sheriff. “But I 
must be moving, or those rascals will have a long start of me. I’ve 
got a lot of things to do before I can get off.” 

“Better let us go with you,” spoke up Frank. “Our horses are 
well rested by this time.” 

“Yes, we’d rather go than hang around here,” said I. 

The sheriff weighed the matter. “All right; come with me if you 
want to. I may need you to identify two of those cattle. I might 
not know them. And I may as well arm you and swear you in as 
deputy-sheriffs. Then you can be drawing pay for the time you’re 
out. I shall have to leave several deputies here to attend to the 
court’s business. You are rather young to be officers — even tempo- 
rary officers. But what you lack in years you make up in grit. 
What do you say?” 

Frank and I were willing enough. And Newt, who had been un- 
decided, now also volunteered to go. 

Frank’s friends were expecting to camp for dinner just outside the 
town, and he and I were to have dinner with them. But the hospit- 
able sheriff overthrew our plans and took all of us home with him. 

The latest developments in our case were the talk of the town. 
And wherever we went people stopped us to say how glad they were 
that we had established our innocence beyond question. Some wanted 
to denounce Judge Wheeler for holding us under bond after all the 
rest of the world was convinced that we ought to be set at liberty. 
But that we refused to listen to. The ways and technicalities of 
courts we did not understand; but we did understand that the man 
who had signed our bonds could hardly bear us any ill-will. 

Oldham’s brother-in-law, whom he had come to visit, lived only 
about five miles from town, in a northwesterly direction. After din- 
ner at Renfro’s Oldham and his wife and Stella drove on out there. 
And it was understood that Frank and I should follow just as soon 
as we got back with our cattle. 

The sheriff had numerous matters to attend to after dinner, and it 
was four o’clock by the time we were ready to take the road. After 
swearing us in he furnished each of us a Winchester rifle, and Frank 
and me a six-shooter apiece. Newt’s own six-shooter was returned 
to him. Each rifle was in a scabbard, by which it was fastened to 
the saddle, the stock to the horn, and the muzzle, after passing back 
under the stirrup-leathers, against the horse's flank. The belts that 


146 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


our six-shooters hung from were heavy with cartridges. 

At last we were ready, and our party of five rode away. One of 
the regular deputies accompanied us. Besides our arms each of us 
carried a blanket and slicker, tied behind his saddle. And we also 
had some provisions with us, especially dried beef. That was light, 
and we could live on dried beef and water if necessary. We hoped 
to return the following day or the day after. But of that there was 
no certainty. 

We rode as fast as prudence would permit, and reached the Fort 
Concho trail just at dusk. The tracks of our three cattle and their 
drivers turned west here; and west we also bent our course. After 
pushing on nearly an hour after nightfall, we went into a dark 
camp by the road-side. Soon after daybreak next morning we were 
in the saddle again. 

Arriving at the place where three of us had escaped from Hart’s 
party, we crossed the creek and looked up the valley. But the cattle- 
camp was no longer there. All the signs indicated that the camping 
place had been abandoned at least two days before. The trail of 
the cattle led toward the fort, and toward the fort we pushed on 
after them. 

“It’s plain enough that Hart had moved on before Watson and 
Dankens arrived here,” observed the sheriff. “And they’ve all got a 
pretty good start of us. We can’t hope to overtake them much this 
side of the fort; that is, if they keep traveling, as they’re very likely 
to do.” 

The distance from here to Fort Concho was supposed to be nearly 
eighty miles, and away we went, at a steady gait, our course a little 
north of west. It was an unsettled country we were now traveling 
through. Sometimes, at long intervals, we passed a cattle-ranch. But 
the road was well beaten; for some of the supplies for the fort were 
wagoned along here, and most of the supplies for the outlying ranches- 

All day long we rode. Late in the afternoon we overtook a train of 
big wagons, each drawn by six mules. They were on their way to 
the fort, the drivers told us. But they had seen no cattle on the road, 
neither the main drove nor the three animals driven by Ame and Ben. 

We camped in the valley of a creek that night, and next morning 
early were on the road again. 

During the forenoon we met some wagons from the fort. The 
teamsters informed us that they had passed two droves of cattle the 
day before. Later in the day they had also met two men driving three 
cattle. Ame and Ben had not yet overtaken Hart. We received sim- 
ilar news at a ranch, where we halted for dinner. 

At night we camped on the bank of the Concho River; and the sun 
was not very high next morning when we rode up to Fort Concho. 

The fort consisted of a good-sized tract of ground and a number of 
buildings, mostly of stone, the whole enclosed on three sides with a 
stone wall. From the top of a tall flag-pole a bright new flag was 
fluttering in the morning breeze. We halted to make inquiries, and 
to lay in some supplies for our further journey. 

An armed sentinel, pacing back and forth across the entrance, stop- 
ped us when we started to go in. But an officer came out and invited 
us to enter. After obtaining some provisions Renfro went to call on 
Colonel Davis, the commandant of the fort. The rest of us strolled 
about the grounds, looking at whatever of interest we could find. 

Some soldiers soon began to drill near the center of the grounds, and 
we stood and watched them. When the sheriff came back we mounted 
and rode on. 

There was no hurry now. H aving learned when our cattle had pass- 
ed the fort, we did not expect to overtake them until they got to Hart’s 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


147 


ranch. At noon we rested and grazed our horses for two or three 
hours. 

The trail was now leading us in a northwesterly direction, and was 
seldom very far from the north or main fork of the* Concho. The 
country was usually open prairie; but in places it was covered with 
mesquite bushes. 

From time to time we noticed bunches of antelopes, most of them 
a good distance away, and running at the top of their speed. Once, 
late in the afternoon, we made out five animals that looked like crook- 
ed-back cattle. They were buffaloes. Newt told us that there were 
still a few stragglers left up in this part of the country. But they 
were wary and hard to find, and it was only by the merest accident 
that we caught sight of them. The little herd made an interesting 
spectacle as they lumbered away awkwardly across the prairie, finally 
disappearing over a rise. 

Night overtook us in some brushy country, and in the brushy 
country we camped. We did not start as early as usual next morn- 
ing, but remained in camp to let our horses graze. We camped again 
an hour or two before night to do some hunting. It was Renfro’s 
good fortune to bring down a young antelope with his rifle, and we 
had fresh meat, broiled, for supper. The rest of us had tried to kill 
something, but had failed to get within range. 

Early next morning we were on the road. An hour’s ride brought 
us to a ranch, near the south bank of the Concho. There were some 
ranch-houses of logs, with mounds of earth on top of them for roofs. 
Not far away were the corrals, or pens, with a few hundred head of 
cattle in them. 

Four men, a white man, a black man, and two Mexicans, were busy 
branding cattle, preparatory to turning them out on the range. The 
men were Hart and his hands; and the cattle were the same that we 
ourselves had helped to drive. But I looked in vain for Lep’s spotted 
back and great horns among the drove; nor could I hear his bell. And 
Ame and Ben were not among the branders. 

As our party rode up to the pen, Hart walked over to the fence. 
He paid not the slightest attention to those of us he knew; but he re- 
marked to the sheriff: 

■ “You’re looking for some cattle, I guess — three cattle.” 

“That’s right,” replied Renfro. “And I see you know about them. 
Where are they? And where are the two men that drove them off?’^ 

“Describe the cattle you’re lookin’ fur.” 

The sheriff described them, and Hart said: 

“That’s what I thought. Well, they’re not here, and the men are 
not here. They overtook us yesterday, only about an hour before we 
got to the ranch. They put the three cattle in my drove, and then 
come along with me. But after we’d got here, and they told me how 
they’d come by the cattle, I let ’em understand mighty quick I didn’t 
want cattle got in any such way.” 

“And what became of them, and of the cattle?” inquired the sheriff. 

“Well, we had some sharp words, and I told ’em straight up and 
down they’d have to cut the three animals out and take the back trail 
with ’em, or quit workin’ for me. I let ’em know that what they’d 
done was just about the same as stealin’, and that they’d better 
straighten 'the matter out as quick as they could. The fact is, they 
were about half drunk that day, or they wouldn’t have been fools 
enough to slip the cattle off like they did. And after they come to 
their senses they was afraid to go back. So they just followed on 
after me as hard as they could.” 

“And what did they do?” asked the sheriff. 

“They swore they never would drive the cattle back. Then I order- 
ed ’em to cut ’em out and travel; and that’s what they did. I didn’t 


148 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


want ’em hanging around me. I may sometimes get a few stolen an- 
imals into my drove without knowing it. But I don’t do anything 
blit a straight business myself, no matter what all the liars may 
swear to.” 

He glanced contemptuously at Newt; and I easily understood that 
Ame or Ben had told him what Newt had sworn to in court. 

I had always doubted if Hart were as dishonest as Newt had be- 
lieved him. And now something in the way this was said made me 
doubt very much if he were as dishonest even as I had believed him. 
And while there are different -grades of honesty, and Hart’s was 
probably not the best, the fact that he had refused to have our cattle 
in his herd, after Ame and Ben had brought them, made me doubt 
if he were dishonest at all, at least from his own point of view. 

“Which way did the men start with the cattle?” inquired the sher- 
iff. 

“They set off up the river,” the ranchman replied. “They cain’t be 
a great distance; for they started only about an hour ago. There’s 
a good big drove of cattle up that way somewheres, and they may be 
tryin’ to overhaul that.” 

“Do you know anything about that drove?” 

“No. I don’t. They passed me while I was in camp, back at the 
edge of the settlements. I was away from camp and didn’t get to 
see ’em. And they’ve been just a few miles in advance of me ever 
since. I’m told they’ve got about a thousand head of cattle and two 
or three hundred head of horses, and a big force of hands. I don’t 
know where they’re makin’ fur, or anything about it. They cain’t 
be a great ways from here yet. I saw the smoke from their camp- 
fire somewhere up the river this morning.” 

We now started on, following the trail that the other drove had 
made. But we rode very slowly at first. Renfro seemed doubtful 
as to our proper course. 

“What do you think, boys? Did he tell the truth?” he wanted to 
know, turning to us who knew Hart. 

“Yes; not much doubt about it,” I answered. 

“You think Watson and Dankens haven’t just run those cattle off 
into the brush somewhere to wait till it’s safe to bring them back?” 

“No, I don’t guess they did,” answered Newt. “Hart’s got all the 
meanness in ’im the law allows, but he won’t lie, even in a trade. So 
I ruther guess he told just about the straight of the matter.” 

“Well, we can soon find out,” said our leader. “Pity we didn’t 
start earlier this morning. But if they’re only an hour ahead of us 
it oughtn’t to take long to run them down. So here goes!” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


DEFIED BY DESPERADOES. 

T he trail we were now following was newly made, seemingly, but 
well beaten out. There had probably been a dim wagon-road 
there before. It was an hour later, perhaps, when we came to 
where a big drove of horses and cattle — the drove that had trampled 
the trail — had spent the night. A camp-fire was still smoking. We 
pushed on, and not a great while afterwards came in sight of the 
moving drove. A covered wagon was following close behind it. 

Soon I detected the familiar tones of a bell; and, as we drew near- 
er, I could distinguish Lep himself among the cattle. There was an 
unusually large force of hands. Indeed, we counted an even dozen 
mounted men. And among them we soon made out the two cowboys 
we were looking for, Ame and Ben. 

Our approach was discovered presently, and it caused no small 
commotion among the drivers. The big drove was stopped, and all 
the cowboys could be seen galloping to the rear. When we were be- 
tween three and four hundred yards off the whole party suddenly 
threw up their Winchesters, and one of them shouted: 

“Halt there!” 

I detected something familiar in the voice, and also in the man's 
appearance. Suddenly I recognized him, with a dismayed start. It 
was the desperado Bill Edsell — sometimes known as the sheriff- 
killer. And among his party I recognized the other men who had 
once thrust their six-shooters at Frank and me. 

We halted at once, and Renfro said to us: 

“Draw your guns, boys, but don't fire unless I give you the word. 
That’s an ugly crowd we’ve run against. And they outnumber us 
more than two to one. I didn’t think about finding the cattle in that 
scoundrel’s hands. That’s the worst desperado in Texas.” 

Up from their scabbards came our Winchesters. After trying the 
locks to see that they were in good working order, we held our rifles 
in readiness to shoot. 

I don’t know how the others felt, but I was pretty nervous. How- 
ever, it would not do for me, a deputy-sheriff, to show the white 
feather. So I set my teeth hard together, gripped the rifle-stock, 
and looked and felt as brave as I could. 

“What do you want, Renfro?” demanded Edsell, holding his gun 
almost in readiness to fire. 

“We want three cattle in that drove,” the sheriff called back. 

“Is that all?” 

“And I’ve got warrants for the two men that drove them off.” 
Instantly a dozen guns rose up and covered us. We also threw 
up our guns. Everything indicated that there would soon be a hot 
battle. I found myself wishing we had been in the woods, where 
there would be something to hide behind; or at longer range, where 
there would be less danger of being hit. Then I began to wonder 
how it would feel to get shot, and a good many similar things. 

“Well, come on and get them if you want them!” shouted Edsell, 
defiantly. 

The sheriff sat quietly in the saddle, rifle in hand, eyeing the gang 
of desperadoes sharply. 


150 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


“Guess they’re rather too many for us, boys,” he said, speaking 
to us, but still keeping his gaze fixed on the armed horsemen ahead 
“We might fight it out with them, but I think there’s a better way 
to deal with that gang — a way that’s not quite so dangerous.” 

He waited a little while, then lifted his voice and called out: 

“Guess you’re too many for us. Bill. We shall have to let you go. 
But you’d better turn over those three cattle to me.” 

The outlaws lowered their rifles, and so did we. 

“Oh yes, we’ll turn them over! Come right along and get them, 
Renfro!” Edsell called out, with a fierce oath and a mocking laugh. 

Our two parties stood eyeing each other suspiciously for a few min- 
utes. Then the other fellows turned their horses, slowly. 

We did the same. But we kept our eyes liehind us and our guns 
in our hands till the desperadoes and we were at least half a mile 
apart. 

“Well, we certainly ran against a hard crowd that time,” remarked 
the sheriff, while we were riding slowly along the trail toward Hart’s 
ranch. 

“And what are we to do now?” I wanted to know. “Strike back 
for the settlements and let the cattle go?” 

I was much disappointed and discouraged. It looked as if, after 
following Lep for hundreds of miles, I must return home empty- 
handed. To me his value seemed increased by all the time and hard 
riding and worry he had cost me. But more than his value was at 
stake now. It had become a matter of principle with me not to go 
home without him. And would Judge Wheeler ever release us from 
our bonds if we failed to take the cattle back? But what could we do? 

“Indeed we’ll not let them go,” replied the sheriff, anger in his 
tones. “It’s more than the loss of three cattle now. It’s a question 
of .whether the law shall be openly, impudently defied. We’ll find a 
way to deal with that gang. Never fear about that.” 

He did not explain his plans at the time. But after we had ridden 
a mile or two further, he said: 

“We might pick our chance and attack those fellows, and kill sev- 
eral of them, and get ourselves killed,- some of us. But as long as 
there’s help within reach it’s neither prudent nor necessary to do that. 
There are plenty of soldiers at Fort Concho, and I can get them by 
calling for them.” 

“And are we going to ride back to the fort now, Mr. Renfro?” in- 
quired Frank. 

“I’ve just been debating that question. At the fort I was told of 
a party of Rangers camped only a few miles from here. They’re ly- 
ing pretty low, because there’s a lot of thieves and outlaws in this 
part of the country that they want to capture. In fact that’s what 
they’re here for. Those fellows that stood us off are probably some 
of the gang the Rangers are after. I didn’t mention the matter to 
you boys before, because it was told me in confidence.” 

“Where are the Rangers, and how can we find them?” inquired the 
regular deputy. 

“They were making their headquarters over yonder to the north- 
east on a creek that runs into the Colorado. I got all the informa- 
tion I could, because I knew we might need them. Colonel Davis 
marked their position on my map. We can find them if they’re still 
where they were. But they may have moved or even left the coun- 
try. They’re state troops, of course, and I’d rather use them if we 
can locate them than to call on the United States soldiers at the fort. 

“And if we fail to find the Rangers, what then?” inquired Newt. 

“Why we shall have to ride back to Fort Concho. But it has oc- 
curred to me that we’d better divide our party, some of us to start 
for the fort now and some to go in search of the Rangers. How 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


151 


would you and Travis and Frank like to make the ride to the fort to 
carry a note to Colonel Davis for me — -a request for soldiers?” 

“I’m ready for the trip if the others are,” answered Newt. And 
Frank and I were willing. 

“You can deliver the note, and then either wait there, or guide the 
soldiers up here if they need any guiding. If we find the Rangers 
and capture those fellows, we’ll meet you somewhere on the trail be- 
tween here and Fort Concho. If we don’t find the Rangers we’ll 
wait at Hart’s ranch. Make as good time as you can, but don’t ride 
your horses to death.” 

We now stopped and the sheriff, taking out a note-book, laid it on 
his saddle-horn and penciled a note to the commanding officer at the 
fort. Armed with this Newt and Frank and I set out on our long, 
lonely ride. The distance was sixty or seventy miles. The sheriff and 
his one remaining deputy left the trail and struck across the country 
toward the northeast, where the Rangers’ camp was supposed to be. 

Before our party of three had ridden a mile further we met four 
men on horseback. All were well armed and they were riding fast. 
Just before they got to us one of them, whom I recognized as Sheriff 
Dugran, called out, addressing Newt: 

“Did you meet a drove of cattle and horses?” 

“You’ll find ’em two or three miles further on, but — ” replied Newt. 
The horsemen hurried by us, without waiting to hear the rest. 

“And when you do find ’em, you’ll wish you hadn’t,” remarked 
Frank, turning in the saddle to gaze after the party. 

“There goes our noble sheriff — the fellow that wanted to arrest 
us instead of the thieves,” I explained to Newt. “The thieves he 
wouldn’t arrest are in Edsell’s gang back there. I wonder if he’s 
found out at last that they’re not quite such paragons of honesty as 
they pretended to be.” 

“If he hasn’t found it out, he will before he’s much older,” ans- 
wered Frank. “I wonder how he ever managed to strike such a 
lively gait.” 

“And who would have believed that Dugan would venture as far 
from home as this?” said I. “Hope nobody will get hurt.” 

“They’ll soon come a-kitin’ back,” predicted Newt. “They don’t 
know what a big, woolly crowd they’re runnin’ onto— any more than 
we did.” 

We rode on. A mile or two more brought us to Hart’s ranch. 
Hart had seen us coming — coming alone- — and he walked out and 
waited by the rode-side. There was nothing in his hand but a cattle- 
whip. Newt, I noticed, looked a little uncomfortable. And I myself 
did not like the expression on the ranchman’s face. 

“Just hold up here a minute, Newt Lindsay,” ordered Hart, as 
we came to where he was standing. 

“I’d ruther not have any words with you, Hart,” answered Newt. 
But Hart’s manner was the manner of a man who would not be re- 
fused, and we had to stop. 

“I don’t care what you want,” replied the ranchman, as he laid 
hold of Newt’s bridle-rein with no gentle grasp. “I don’t propose to 
let any low-down scoundrel treat me the dirty way you’ve treated 
me, without tollin’ ’im just what I think of ’im.” 

“I’ve told you once I don’t want any words,” Newt said. 

“And I’ve told you I don’t care what you don’t want,” replied the 
ranchman, with an oath. 

“Newt’s right. What’s the good of quarreling,” I spoke up. 

Hart glared at me. “I’ll have a few words for you two when I 
finish up with this skunk.” 

Then he turned to Newt again, his face showing signs of the anger 
he was controlling. 


152 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


“Didn’t I always treat you on the square, Newt Lindsay?” he de- 
manded, fiercely. “Didn’t I always pay you the day your money was 
due, or even before if you needed it? Did I ever swindle you out of 
a red cent? Did you ever know me to swindle anybody, white man 
or nigger or Greaser, or to get anything without payin’ for it? No, 
you never did, and you know it as well as I do. Then what do you 
mean by goin’ into court and perjurin’ yourself by swearin’ that I’m 
carryin’ on crooked business?” 

“You did have cattle in your drove that had been stole,” protested 
Newt. 

“How do you know I had?” demanded Hart. 

“Because the owners came and claimed ’em.” 

“They did! How do you know they was the owners?” 

“Why, because they said so.” 

“Because they said so!” exclaimed Hart, sarcastically. “If a fel- 
low was to come along and say your horse and saddle belonged to 
him, you’d hop right off and tell ’im to help ’imself, would you?” 

“No, I wouldn’t. But that’s different — very different.” 

“No, it’s exactly the same thing. You wouldn’t surrender your 
horse; but I’m a scoundrel because I don’t turn over cattle I’ve paid 
for to the first blowhard that bobs up and claims ’em! The biggest 
fool thing I ever did was to keep such a lunatic as you around me 
for a whole year! I’ve half a mind to drag you out of that saddle 
and wear this whip out over your worthless back!” 

He had worked himself into a rage, and was speaking so loudly 
and excitedly that none of us saw or heard half a dozen horsemen 
till they were almost upon us. Then Vic began to bark. The horse- 
men had just come out of some brush which bordered the road in 
the direction of the fort. 

“Yonder’s the black scoundrel that stuck his six-shooter under our 
noses when we claimed our cattle!” shouted one of the men, the mo- 
ment Hart turned from Newt to face them, 

I looked up at the speaker, and recognized the blustering settler 
that Hart had disarmed and put to flight that day at noon. Newt 
had hit the mark when he predicted that those men would return. 
But they were several days later than he had foreseen. 

Every man of the settlers was well armed, and several guns were 
quickly leveled at the surprised ranchman. I saw him glance to- 
ward the ranch-house, as if wishing himself there. But the odds 
were against him, and he held up his hands when ordered to do so. 
A settler now rode up and took Hart’s six-shooter. 

By this time another party of horsemen had emerged from the 
brush; and more and more kept riding into view, till there seemed 
a little army of them. By actual count there were eighty-two. Hart 
was surrounded, and his hands were securely tied behind him. His 
face had the color of ashes, but he said nothing. 

When all the vigilants had arrived Hart was marched over to the 
cattle-pens. Black Sam and the two Mexicans had been busy there 
a few minutes before, but now they were nowhere to be seen. They 
had fled to the brush. 

The vigilants at once began to pick out animals that belonged to 
them. By the time they had finished nearly fifty head of Hart’s 
cattle had been claimed. Hart stood quietly, uttering not a word of 
protest. 

“Well, boys,” said the blusterer — the man who had felt Hart’s six- 
shooter against his breast — “I don’t see any use wastin’ valyble time. 
Yonder’s just the rierht kind of a tree!” 

He was pointing to a big pecan that grew near the river-bank, a 
hundred yards away. Several others endorsed the suggestion, and 


153 


A CROOKED. TRAIL 


the party moved toward the tree with their prisoner. We sat in our 
saddles and waited. 

“Poor Hart!” exclaimed Frank. “That’s the end of him, I guess. 
Those fellows know exactly what they want to do, and nothing can 
stop them.” 

As the vigilants were moving off with their prisoner, two of them 
rode back to us. 

“What you fellers doin’ here?” one of them demanded, rather sus- 
* piciously, it seemed to me. 

“We trailed some stolen cattle out here,” I answered. 

“Oh! Then you’re here on the same business we’re on.~ Come over 
and see the fun.” 

“None of that kind of fun for me, thank you.” 

“Don’t like to watch it, eh? Well, it ain’t so overly nice. But it’s 
got to be done.” They rode away after the others. 

A strange, creepy feeling took possession of me as we sat in our 
saddles and watched the eighty vigilants gather around their lone, 
helpless prisoner, under the big pecan tree. To me it seemed a hor- 
rible thing that they were about to do. All of Hart’s faults, and they 
were many, were forgotten now, and all his better traits rose up be- 
fore me to plead for his life. 

Most of the time I looked in some other direction, barely glancing 
toward the mob now and then to see if they had begun the execution. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


THE VIGILANTS’ COURT. 

B ut we soon discovered that the vigilants did not intend to pro- 
ceed hastily. There were men in the crowd with some sense 
of responsibility, and these were insisting that the prisoner 
be given a trial. The two fellows who had felt Hart’s six-shooter 
against their breasts, and some others like them, were impatient of 
all delay, and kept demanding that the lynching proceed at once. 

But the more cautious element prevailed, and a formal trial was 
decided upon. Only the semblance of a trial the prisoner would have, 
with the result known in advance. But perhaps it would be better 
than none at all. 

Having overheard this decision, we now 'rode down to where the 
vigilants were getting ready to hold court. Some of the party had 
hitched their horses to bushes and trees round about, and others had 
turned theirs loose to graze. We dismounted at the outer edge of 
the crowd and stood holding ours. 

Most of the men had seated themselves on the ground, in a big 
circle. The prisoner, with his hands still tied behind him, was stand- 
ing in the center, as silent and as motionless as a statue. He either 
had marvelous self-control, or was half-stupefied by the fate await- 
ing him. Directly over his head, and ten or fifteen feet above, was 
a big, horizontal limb; and various members of the crowd kept 
glancing up at it significantly. 

Now a stalwart, flaxen-haired man, with a reddish beard, who 
seemed to be a leader among the vigilants, stepped in front of Hart. 

“Prisoner under the limb,” he began. A smile and a ripple of 
laughter ran round the stern-faced circle at this change in the com- 
mon court-of-law phrase. And the big man’s eyes twinkled, as if 
he had made a good joke. “Prisoner under the limb,” he repeated, 
“you’re accused of drivin’ off other men’s cattle. Do you plead 
guilty or not guilty?” 

“Not guilty,” answered Hart, in quiet but very positive tones. 
“Prisoner under the limb,” the flaxen-haired man went on, “we’ve 
heard you say you ain’t guilty, but we’ve still got our doubts — 
mighty big ones too. You’re goin’ to have a trial, though, and we 
give you the privilege of choosin’ any man in this here crowd to act 
as judge. Look around you keerful, and pick your man.” 

Now the prisoner roused himself. Wonderfully changed he ap- 
peared in look and manner from what he had always been. Slowly, 
very slowly, his eyes traveled around the circle. His action reminded 
me of nothing so much as of a homeless, ownerless dog, looking a 
crowd over half timidly for a friendly face. Once I noticed those 
searching eyes rest upon a gray-haired, gray-bearded man. But they 
soon traveled on. Nor did they stop again till they had scanned every 
face in the hostile circle. 

Then they returned at once to the old man. After letting them 
linger there for a few moments, the prisoner inclined his head in 
that direction. 

“I choose him,” he said, in scarcely audible tones. 

“Mr. Groves, you’re the judge of this here honorable court,” called 
out the flaxen-haired leader. “S’posin’ you take the bench.” 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


155 


The old man rose slowly, gravely, and walked over to the foot of 
the tree. 

“Men,” he said, “you probably don’t know that in the state I came 
from I was long a justice of the peace, and for two years a county 
judge. So, if we’re going to try this man let’s give him a real trial 
and not a sham trial. I won’t go through any farce, or any travesty 
of justice. That must be understood from the start.” 

“Oh, we’ll give ’im a fair trial all right,” answered the flaxen- 
haired man, good-naturedly, a smile on his face. 

Some of the outside vigilants now brought in a log and placed it 
at the foot of the tree, for the judge to sit on. And the old man 
seated himself, gravely as became a judge. Later another log was 
brought in for a seat for Hart. 

“Prisoner under the limb,” said the flaxen-haired leader, “you are 
now permitted to choose any man in this crowd to act as your law- 
yer. I don’t reckon we’ve got any shore-’nough lawyers here, but 
most of us has been in court-rooms, as witnesses and on juries, and 
we know somethin’ about how such things is carried on. Let all 
them that’s ever done any kind of public speakin’ stand to their feet, 
so’s the prisoner can see who he’s got to choose from. Up with you, 
boys! Don’t be bashful.” 

More than a dozen men stood up, some of their own accord, others 
after being pushed out by their friends. 

The accused man looked them all over carefully, critically, with- 
out a word. Then he turned to the flaxen-haired vigilant. 

“I choose you,” he said, without hesitation. 

The stalwart leader started back, as if the prisoner had struck him. 

“Well now, I was thinkin’ if I had anything to do with this trial 
at all. I’d be on the other side,” he protested. “Fact is, man, I’m 
prejudiced against you. Ain’t no use denyin’ that. Better pick out 
somebody else.” 

The accused man looked about him again, doubtfully. But the 
judge spoke up: 

“Mr. Judson, according to your own offer to the prisoner, I don’t 
see how you can refuse to act as his lawyer if you are the man he 
wants. You’ll have to lay aside your prejudice.” 

“Well, if the fellow insists,” answered Judson, “I won’t go back 
on what I said. If I take the case. I’ll do all I can for ’im. He can 
count on that. But I’d lots ruther he’d pick out somebody else.” 

“I’d ruther have you,” persisted Hart. 

“All right, pardner, you’ve got me,” answered Judson, smiling a 
puzzled sort of smile. “Now, Judge, guess you’d better name the 
lawyer for the other side.” 

Various names were called out, but Groves finally selected a man 
named Taylor. After studying the faces of the two men, and hear- 
ing them speak, I was not long in deciding that. Hart had made the 
wiser choice. When once Judson got to defending the prisoner, his 
sympathies would go over to him. And he was a leader of men. 

“Now, prisoner,” said the judge, “you will be permitted to select 
a jury of twelve men from this crowd, to hear testimony and decide 
your case. Name your first man.” 

Hart and Judson whispered together a few moments, then Hart 
pointed out one of the more serious, cautious-looking members of the 
party. The man sprang up, walked over and took his place on the 
judge’s right, seating himself on the ground again. 

Here Taylor, who was acting as prosecutor, demanded that he be 
allowed to choose the next juror. But Judson protested; and Judge 
Groves- decided that, inasmuch as everybody present was more or 
less prejudiced against the accused man. Hart should choose the 
whole jury. 


156 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


So the process of selecting the other eleven jurors went on. As 
fast as chosen they came over and seated themselves on the grass, 
in a row. Some of them looked a little uncomfortable, as if not 
relishing the responsibility thrown upon them. But, on the whole, 
I felt convinced that Hart, advised by Judson, had chosen the twelve 
men most likely to bring in a just verdict. 

“Gentlemen of the jury,” said the judge, himself rising, “will all 
of you please stand, and take off your hats?” 

They complied readily, and the judge went on, in his grave voice: 

“Gentlemen of the jury, you are now about to try this man — this 
accused man — for his life. Please hold up your right hands. Do 
you, each and all, solemnly swear to lay aside all prejudice, and to 
try this case by the facts and the evidence, and to decide accordingly? 
And do you swear that if there is any reasonable doubt of the pris- 
oner’s guilt, you will give him the benefit of that doubt and acquit 
him? And do you swear to deal with this man in all things as you 
hope to be dealt with when you shall stand before the Judge of all 
the earth?” 

The old man had spoken slowly, solemnly, impressively. After he 
had ceased, the hush that had fallen upon the mob continued. 

“Jedge, ain’t you puttin’ that a little too strong?” a juror finally 
inquired, scratching his head doubtfully. 

“No, I think not. Today we are trying this man for his life. To- 
morrow, it may be, or very soon at least, we ourselves shall be tried, 
every one of us, before a Judge who has warned us that with what 
judgment we judge we ourselves shall be judged. As you deal with 
this man today, so you shall be dealt with, whether you will or not, 
in the great day of accounts.” 

One by one the jurors assented to the oath that the judge had 
administered. Then they sat down again. But it seemed to me that 
a different spirit, a stronger sense of responsibility, had taken pos- 
session, not only of the jury, but of the whole circle of vigilants. 

Now Taylor, the prosecutor, called as the first witness the blus- 
tering fellow that Hart had given such a fright. The witness 
brought out all the facts against Hart, told some things that were 
not facts, and so colored his testimony that there seemed to be no 
extenuating circumstances in Hart’s favor. And when Judson came 
to cross-question him the witness denied, loudly and angrily, that 
he had threatened Hart, or done anything whatever to provoke him 
except to claim some cattle. On the whole, I could not help feeling 
that his account of the matter had done Hart no small injustice. 

The man who had fled with the blusterer that day was also call- 
ed as a witness. He told a similar story and colored it with fully as 
much of his own prejudice. 

Now witness after witness came forward. All stated that Hart’s 
party had passed through their country, and about the same time 
or a little later they had missed cattle and horses. And some of 
them testified that they had just found their missing cattle in Hart’s 
pens. 

In cross-examination Judson made every one admit that he had no 
knowledge whatever that Hart had stolen the cattle, and no know- 
ledge that Hart had not bought them from somebody. 

When the time arrived for the defense to present their side of the 
case Hart himself rose and moved over in front of the jury to testify 
in his own behalf. He could not hold up his hand, but insisted upon 
being sworn, as the other witnesses had been. 

First he told of starting in the cattle-raising business, some years 
before, and of his methods of conducting the business. He- stated 
positively that he possessed a bill of sale for every animal he claimed 
whether in his pens or on the range. He admitted that some of 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


157 


them might have been stolen; but he insisted that he himself was not 
the thief, and had only been imposed upon by thieves. 

Judson now offered to fetch the bills of sale and put them in evi- 
dence. The prosecutor admitted that there were such papers in ex- 
istence, but sneered at them as being manufactured for the purpose. 

After Hart’s testimony had been concluded, the judge looked at 
him and inquired: 

“Prisoner, have you any other witnesses that you want called?” 

Hart turned, then turned back. “Most of the men that could tell 
you that what I’ve said is true are not here now,” he answered. 
“Three of ihem was out there at the pens when you men rode up, 
but I guess they stampeded and took to the brush.” 

“Because they’re guilty, and know you’re guilty,” spoke up the 
prosecutor. “Innocent men don’t sneak off and hide.” 

Hart made no reply. He now turned and looked appealingly at 
Newt. But Newt was gazing in another direction, and either failed 
or refused to see him. Hart evidently took this as a refusal to tes- 
tify willingly. And knowing Newt’s evidence in Judge Wheeler’s 
court, the ranchman was afraid to have him called unwillingly, lest 
his testimony should do more harm than good. 

Then he looked at me, and also at Frank, in mute appeal for help. 
Neither of us made any response at the moment, and I saw despair 
settle on the prisoner’s face as he turned away. Nobody realized 
better than Hart how weak his defense was. 

“I cain’t find any more witnesses,”’ he said, his voice so low that we 
could scarcely hear him. It was the tone of despair. 

“Travis, this won’t do,” whispered Frank to me. 

“Of course it won’t,” I answered. “Let’s talk to Newt.” 

And talk to him we did, speaking in cautious tones. Newt, I had 
already learned, was rather vengeful; and I had a suspicion that he 
remembered Hart’s recent threat to use a whip over him. But I 
soon discovered that, just now, he was more frightened than ob- 
stinate. Indeed, so badly frightened was he that his hands were 
trembling. 

“Do you think I’m goin’ to let it out that I was with Hart a whole 
year, and get that mob after me? Not bad I won’t. It wouldn’t 
help Hart, and it would be just shore to drag me into trouble with 
’im.” 

Frank and I insisted that there was no serious danger, and tried 
to argue with him, but he refused even to listen to us. The judge 
was saying aloud: 

“If any person present knows anything whatever in the prisoner’s 
favor I charge him to speak, and to speak now.” 

“I know I’ve got a rope ready and waitin’!” an impatient vigilant 
called out, from the outer side of the circle. 

Several men laughed, but the judge commanded “silence!” very 
sternly, then added: 

“If nobody knows anything in the prisoner’s favor — ” 

“Hold on there, please!” Frank called out. “Two more witnesses 
here yet!” 

All eyes were turned toward us. Newt, in no little fear and agi- 
tation, whispered: 

“Why didn’t you keep still? You won’t do Hart a bit of e-ood, and 
you may get yourselves hung on the same limb with ’im. Whatever 
you do, don’t mention me.” 

I had scarcely thought of such danger to myself before. But it 
must be confessed that Newt’s warning did not tend to reassure me 
as I handed my bridle-rein to Frank and walked forward to give my 
testimony in the vigilants’ court. 

“Teirthem the whole story, like you did Judge Wheeler, and they’ll 


158 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


believe you — never fear about that,” was Frank’s parting admoni- 
tion, given in low tones. 

The grim, armed circle opened itself slightly to let me' in. After 
being sworn by the gray-haired judge I stood on his left, so as to 
face the jury, the men acting as attorneys, and the larger part of 
the crowd. 

“Now tell us what you know about this man Hart,” said Judson. 

“And make it mighty short,” a voice called out, from the outer edge 
of the circle. “We’ve got the rope ready, and I don’t see the use of 
wastin’ any more time.” 

“Silence!” ordered the judge, very sternly. “All such remarks as 
that are out of order.” 

And I was glad to notice that the sentiment of the crowd seemed 
to approve the rebuke. At the same time I felt little doubt that 
Hart was already doomed, and would soon be dangling from that 
big limb above his head — unless we who knew him could save him. 
I resolved to do my best. 

But some instinct warned me that it would be unwise, and possibly 
dangerous, to begin by telling that I had once been in Hart’s em- 
ploy. At the best it would prejudice the vigilants against my testi- 
mony. So, acting upon Frank’s suggestion, I began at the beginning 
of my story, as I had done before in the court of law. After telling 
my name, and where I lived, I mentioned that I was here in pursuit 
of cattle that had first run away from home and then been stolen. 
Proceeding, I detailed my pursuit of the runaway ox, jumping from 
point to point till I came to describe the finding of our cattle in the 
hands of thieves. 

“That’s precizely the treatment me and Jim Green got when we 
found our cattle in this feller’s hands — only worse,” spoke up the 
blusterer. 

“It wasn’t' this man Hart that treated us that way,” I answered, 
“The men that did that are only a few miles up the river from here 
now. And, as it happens, they still hold our cattle in their drove, and 
no telling how many other stolen stock. We tried to get ours from 
them only this morning, and had Winchesters stuck at us this time 
instead of six-shooters.” 

Here there was a general straightening up, and a dozen ouestions 
were showered upon me at once. During the confusion that follow- 
ed, I had time to arrive at one conclusion : that it would be easy to 
turn the wrath of this mob from Hart to the men with the big drove. 
And realizing that it is far easier to turn a torrent than to dam it 
altogether, I decided to do that very thing. 

“Let the witness give his testimony in his own way,” called out 
Judson. “He’ll tell you all about them other men, I guess, when he 
comes to ’em. We already know somethin’ about ’em. It’ll be their 
turn next.” 

“That’s right. I’ll tell you about the other men, and that very 
soon.” I lifted my voice to say. 

Silence followed, and I went on with ray story. When I came to 
relate how Dugan had turned against us, numerous expressions of 
indignation were heard. 

“That’s just like Dugan,” spoke up somebody. 

“And that’s just the way when you depend on officers of the law 
to do anything for you.” another vigilant declared. “That’s why 
we’re goin’ to attend to this little business on onr own hook.” 

“But all sheriff’s are not alike, as we’ve found out since,” I spoke 
out. 

Then I told of discovering the lost trail, and of following it for 
days, till we had overtaken Hart and his drove. I also described our 
perplexity and uncertainty, and explained how we came to hire our- 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


159 


selves to Hart. Now I merely mentioned that we had staid with him 
three weeks. 

“So that’s the way the wind blows, is it?” spoke up a burly vigilant 
with a gruff voice. “You’re one of this feller’s gang, and as bad as 
he is. If you’re to vouch for him, who’s to vouch for you?” 

.“Yes, who’ll vouch for you?” shouted another man. “How do we 
know all this lost-cattle story you’ve been stuffin’ us with ain’t just a 
yarn of your own spinnin’?” 

“Yes, sir, men, that’s one of the very chaps that stuck their six- 
shooters under my nose!” declared the blusterer. “I’d forgot all 
about ’im, but I recollect ’im well enough now.” 

Soon a dozen different men, from different part of the circle, were 
hurling similar things at me. And the hitherto orderly crowd was 
fast turning to a disorderly mob. I was greatly alarmed. Newt 
might have been wise when he warned us that we should only run 
into trouble by standing up for Hart, and might even get ourselves 
hanged with him. 

Looking out to my friends, I could see that they, too, were much 
frightened. Well I realized now that I was standing on a smoulder- 
ing volcano, which might burst out from under my feet at any mo- 
ment. There were sensible, self-controlled men in the mob, but they 
were far from being in the majority; and there was no certainty 
that they could control their reckless, headstrong companions. And 
I was aware that mobs often do things from some mad impulse, for 
which they themselves are heartily sorry an hour afterwards. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


TEN PRISONERS UNDER A LIMB. 

H aving been bom on the frontier I had learned something of 
frontiersmen. I knew that with them a little display of 
fearlessness, or even make-believe fearlessness, will often go 
further than a long argument. I also realized that something rnust 
be done at once. For the tide of sentiment was setting hard against 
me. 

Renfro’s six-shooter was hanging at my belt. With my right hand 
on its handle I faced the hostile, growling mob, and held up my left 
hand for silence. As soon as I could make myself heard I called out: 

“If any man in this crowd thinks I’m not as honest as he is, let 
him stand up and say so!” 

Silence followed. Everybody watched to see what the others were 
going to do, but nobody accepted my challenge. Soon a murmur ran 
over the circle, breaking into outspoken approval. 

“That’s the way to talk to ’em!” exclaimed a vigilant close to me. 
“Yes, that’s got the right ring to it,” laughed the big man with 
the gruff voice, who had first spoken against me. 

“Good for the boy! Cain’t skeer him out!” exclaimed another vig- 
ilant. 

“Go on with your talk! You’re all right!” somebody else called out. 
My bravado had hit the mark. Much relieved, I turned to the 
jury again. The judge was calling sternly for order. When order 
had been restored, I turned back to the crowd. 

‘^f you want any evidence that I’m all right, I might mention that 
I’m a deputy-sheriff, appointed only a few days ago.” 

“And I can vouch for the truth of what he says about huntin’ for 
lost cattle,” now called out a vigilant from the outer edge of the 
crowd, as he rose to his feet to speak. “This young fellow and an- 
other one — that one out there — staid all night at my house while they 
was on the hunt. That was a month or so ago. I’d seen this man 
Hart buy their cattle from another outfit, and it was me that put ’em 
on Hart’s trail. What Holloway says about that is all straight as 
a square. In fact, if it hadn’t been for what them two boys told me 
a good many of us wouldn’t be here now, I guess.” 

I had not recognized the speaker before; perhaps I had not seen 
him. But his corroboration of my story was very welcome. If any 
smouldering embers of hostility had remained, his words extinguish- 
ed them. From this time on I spoke to a friendly crowd. 

Taking up my narrative where it had been broken off I now told 
of our flight from Hart’s camp. 

“We were standing by and saw how Hart treated the two men 
that claimed some of his cattle,” I said. “But instead of helping 
him with it, as that man over there imagined we did, we decided 
at once to get away from Hart just as soon as we could.” 

Then I went on with my story. As I proceeded, the prosecutor 
interrupted me with a question: 

“If you believed Hart to be an honest man, why did you steal your 
cattle out and run ’em off like that?” 

This was a hard question to answer, but I held fast to the truth. 
“Well, it was something like this. Not one of us had ever believed 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


161 


that Hart would steal. But there are honesty and honesty — differ- 
ent grades of honesty. A man may be too honest to steal, and yet 
not honest enough to surrender stolen property that he has paid for, 
at least without good proof. We didn’t have any proof at all except 
our word. And from what we had seen we didn’t believe Mr. Hart 
would take that for proof. We paid back all that Hart had paid for 
our three cattle, and then we thought we had a right to take them 
any way we pleased.” 

Some surprised or incredulous exclamations followed this state- 
ment, but Hart spoke up: 

“That’s right. They paid back every cent. I found the money 
next day where they’d put it.” 

Now I told briefly of our arrest and detention, and of the coming 
of a witness that would have set us at liberty, but for the fact that 
the cattle had disappeared before she could identify them. 

“So it seems that you’re out on bond,” remarked the prosecutor. 

“That’s right. We’re out on bond, with the judge of the circuit 
court, the prosecuting attorney, the sheriff and several other prom- 
inent citizens for bondsmen.” 

Going on with my narrative, I told of following the cattle up here, 
and of learning that Hart had not only refused to receive them, but 
had refused to let the two cowboys remain at his ranch unless they 
first drove the cattle back. Now Judson inquired: 

“Did you ever know of Hart stealin’ anything whatsoever?” 

“I certainly never did,” was my unhesitating reply. 

“Did his ways of doin’ business seem to be straight and up to the 
mark all the way through?” 

“When he was buying cattle they did. I never saw a more cau- 
tious man in all his dealings.” 

“Do you believe that Hart stole, or had anything to do with stealin’ 
a single one of the cattle out there that these men have just claimed?” 

“No, I don’t. I know he didn’t steal some of them; because I saw 
them bought and paid for. I wrote the bills of sale myself, and saw 
them signed.” 

Now I told how we of Renfro’s party had found our cattle, and 
had been “stood off” with Winchesters. 

“They’ve got a thousand head of cattle and a few hundred horses,” 
I said, “and no telling how many stolen animals besides ours.” 

“And the sooner we get started after ’em the better,” spoke up a 
vigilant. “That’s the gang we want, and that’s where we’ll find the 
rest of our stolen stock, I guess.” 

This ended my evidence. Both Judson and Taylor had cross- 
questioned me as I told my story, and I now passed out to where my 
friends were waiting. 

“I tell you, Travis, you did that thing up just about right,” 
whispered Frank to me. “The way you worked that six-shooter bus- 
iness would make a fellow think you an old hand at fighting — ready 
to fight the whole outfit at the drop of a hat.” 

He made his way into the ring, and was soon telling what he knew 
of Hart. After going over some things that I had testified to, he 
gave the true story of the two settlers Hart had chased back the road. 

“Do you mean to say them two men lied when they testified about 
that little affair?” demanded the prosecutor. 

“No, but I think they were too badly scared at the time to know 
what really did happen.” 

This caused a general lafigh, and a better feeling seemed to per- 
vade the crowd. In conclusion Frank testified positively that he did 
not believe Hart had stolen anything or would steal anything. 

By this time Newt had regained his courage, and he, too, went in 
to testify for his recent employer. And testify he did, saying noth- 


162 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


ing of his former suspicions, but telling a straight story in Hart’s 
favor all the way through. 

“If you believed Hart to be right kind, why did you slip off and 
leave ’im in the dead of night?” demanded Taylor the prosecutor. 

“Well, for one thing. Hart had got mad and cussed me, and I 
didn’t want any more to do with ’im. I didn’t like a hair of his head, 
and I don’t yet. And then the two boys that had cattle in Hart’s 
drove had made up their minds to run off with ’em, and they need- 
ed me to help. But the main reason was that Hart’s way of dealin’ 
with men that claimed some of his cattle was likely to stir up 
trouble — the very trouble that’s happenin’ this minute. And I didn’t 
want any finger in that kind of a pie, not if I could help myself.” 

A ripple of laughter ran over the crowd at this frank statement. 
But it was easy to see that Newt’s testimony, covering so long a 
period, and given in spite of some ill-feeling, had created a favor- 
able impression for Hart. 

The judge now called for other witnesses, but no others came for- 
ward. He then informed Judson and Taylor that they would be 
permitted to address the jury. Both availed themselves of the 
privilege. 

Their speeches swarmed with grammatical errors, and were crude 
in other ways. But, on the whole, they seemed in keeping with the 
surroundings — a vigilants’ court a hundred and fifty miles deep in 
the wilds. Judson spoke very earnestly: 

“When I took holt of this here case, gentlemen of the jury,” he 
began, “I thought I’d just see that all the evidence in the prisoner’s 
favor was brought in, and that nobody didn’t tell any lies ag’in’ 
’im, and then I’d step aside and let matters take their own course. 
.1 didn’t dream of doin’ any speechifyin’ today. But before things had 
slid along so overly fur, I kind of woke un to the fact that this here 
prisoner is as innocent of stealin’ them there cattle as you and me 
air, boys. I ruther guess you can all see that as plain as I can now; 
but if you cain’t, why, I’m lust goin’ to set in and try to make it as 
plain as the nose on your face.” 

And so, in his homely way, he proceeded to review the evidence, 
and to make his crudely worded but strong and logical argument. 
There was much rough eloquence in it. His speech was far better 
than the prosecutor’s, .and I felt that it ought to convince everybody. 
But just what effect it was having upon the vigilants I could not 
tell, because most of them had become silent. 

When the speaker had finished the judge reminded the jury of 
their oath, and of the responsibility resting upon them. Then he 
told them to step aside and make up their verdict. 

They rose at once and, passing out of the crowd, walked about a 
hundred yards to the shade of another tree. After talking together 
there a few minutes, they came marching back. 

“Gentlemen of the jury,” said the judge, when the twelve men stood 
before him again, “have you reached a verdict?” 

“We have.” answered one of their number. 

“What is it?” 

A breathless hush fell upon the ring of vigilants as we listened 
for the reply. 

“We find the prisoner not guilty, and order him released.” 

Silence followed this announcement. But soon the blusterer ex- 
ploded with wrath. He cursed long and loudly, and threatened to go 
home. A few others agreed with him, but most of the crowd en- 
dorsed the verdict. 

“The prisoner is discharged and court is adjourned,” announced 
the judge. 

“Adjourned till we ketch the real thieves,” called out Judson, as 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


163 


he whipped out his pocket-knife and severed the piece of rope that 
bound Hart’s hands. “Boys, while we’ve been killin’ time here oyer 
an innocent man, the real thieves, the gang on ahead, is gettin’ 
fu’ther and fu’ther away. We’re still short a big lot of cattle and 
horses, you know. I, for one, hain’t found anything of mine yet. 
Let’s be ridin’!” 

One of the vigilants now returned Hart’s six-shooter, and several 
apologized for the mistake they had been about to make. Hart 
smiled, and accepted their apologies pleasantly. But he still seemed 
a little dazed, and stood looking at the marks on his wrists, as if not 
realizing that it was all over. 

Soon the vigilants had mounted and were riding away, on the 
trail of Edsell’s gang. They left their cattle in the pen, but had 
informed Hart that they would stop for them on their way back. 
Frank and Newt and I were left alone with Hart. 

“Well, boys,” said the ranchman, rousing himself, “I didn’t think 
you treated me just right a few days ago, and I was mad as blazes 
about it. But that’s all dead and buried now. You stood by me like 
men today, when I needed you mighty bad, and I’ll not forget — I’ll 
not forget. If the day ever comes when you’re in trouble, and Jas- 
per Hart can be of any service to you, just let ’im know, and he’ll 
get to you as quick as he can, if he has to travel half-way around 
the world. But let’s go up to the house and stir up some dinner. 
Good while past dinner-time now.” 

We went with him, after unsaddling our horses. In the absence 
of Sam, the black cook. Hart himself fell to work to prepare dinner. 
While he was thus busy the rest of us went out to take a look at 
the ranch. While strolling about, we saw three horsemen coming 
up the trail from Fort Concho. 

“Why it’s Sheriff McCracken and his two deputies! Don’t you see 
it is?” exclaimed Frank to me. 

“Wonder what they’re doing out here,” I remarked, as he and I 
were walking out to the road to intercept them. 

“Must be a sheriffs’ convention up here somewhere, from the way 
they’re all gathering,” laughed Frank. 

The horsemen stopped to make inquiries, but failed to recognize 
us at first. When we mentioned our having rafted them across the 
Cowhouse they were both surprised and glad to see us, and all shook 
hands with us. 

“Why, I thought you boys lived close around there,” said Mc- 
Cracken, after we had explained how we came to be here. “And 
so you were hunting cattle, and have been on their trail ever since. 
Well, you are having a long, long hunt of it. But we’re having 
fully as long a hunt for that desperado Edsell.” 

“Have you been after that fellow all this time?” asked Frank. 

“Yes, we have,” answered the sheriff. “We ran onto him and an- 
other man at dusk the next day after we saw you, and we exchang- 
ed a good many shots with them. But they dodged us in the dark, 
and we’ve ‘never set eyes on them since. We got off on a false 
scent, and lost a lot of time before we found out our mistake. Fin- 
ally, just a few days ago, we learned by the merest chance that Bill 
had been seen with a big drove of cattle, moving out this way. 
And we’re still trailing that drove.” 

“And you’re only a few miles behind it now,” I spoke up. But 
if you wanted to find Edsell, you should have staid with us. 
We’ve run onto him three times since we rafted him across the 

Cowhouse.” , , , , ^ ^ . 

“Three times! And we’ve been scouring the whole state for him, 
and couldn’t get a glimpse of him. How did you happen to run 
across him?” 


164 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


We told him, briefly, the whole story of our experiences since 
that day on the Cowhouse, ending with our being defied by Edsell’s 
gang of desperadoes only a few hours before, and with our still 
more recent experience in the vigilants’ court. 

“Well, you have been having a lively chase of it, boys!” exclaim- 
ed the sheriff. “But you won’t have to take that long ride to Fort 
Concho and back, I’'m glad to tell you. The soldiers are already on 
the way. We passed Lionel Davis and a hundred cavalry in camp 
this morning, just after daylight. I talked with the colonel only a 
minute or two; but he told me that seventy-five armed settlers had 
passed the fort, marching up this way, and he thought he’d better 
follow to see what was going on. He knew there was likely to be 
trouble.” 

“And, where are they now — the cavalry?” I wanted to know. 

“That depends on how fast they’re traveling. They maye be 
miles and miles behind us; and they may be almost on our heels. 
Usually, though, they don’t make very fast time. I’m told. But if 
those vigilants are pushing on after Edsell’s gang we’ve got to 
push on too. I want to have a hand in capturing that fellow.” 

And away the three officers clattered, at a lively gait. Frank 
and I walked back and talked to Newt. We promptly decided to 
abandon our trip to Fort Concho, and to follow McCracken and the 
vigilants instead. We went to tell Hart, but he insisted that we 
wait till after dinner, which would soon be ready. And wait we did. 

While we were eating, Sam and the two Mexicans made their 
appearance at the door of the ranch-house. 

“Well, boys, did you find the cattle that got out?” was Hart’s 
greeting. 

The three only grinned in a sheepish way. They knew that Hart 
was poking fun at them. Soon the ranchman added, more seriously: 

“It’s all right, boys. I don’t blame you for huntin’ holes. For 
two or three hours there I’d have forked over everything I had in 
the world to be off in the brush with you. But it’s all over now.” 

A few hours earlier Hart would have cursed the three hands for 
a far less serious offense than deserting him. But that long, face- 
to-face view of death had sobered him wonderfully. All his reck- 
lessness seemed to have evaporated. 

Not very much later we three had saddled our horses and were 
ready to ride. 

“I’d go with you, boys, if I thought I could do you any good,” 
Hart said to us. “But I doubt if I could. And I’ve got some cattle 
that must be branded and turned out to grass the first minute pos- 
sible. But you must stay all night with me on your way back.” 

We assured him that we would probably do so, and were soon 
trotting away. We were eager to learn what was going on up the 
river. 

When a few miles from the ranch we looked toward the northeast, 
across a long stretch of country, and could make out a troop of 
horsemen coming over a ridge. 

“That must be Renfro and the Rangers,” remarked Newt. And 
Frank and I agreed with him. We thought of waiting for them, 
but decided to push on. 

It was half an hour later when, looking down into a valley of the 
Concho, we saw a canvas-topped wagon standing by some trees, and 
a numerous drove of cattle and horses scattered and grazing over 
the valley. And up from the drove came to my ears the long-fa- 
miliar tones of a bell. 

At one place, at the edge of some woods that fringed the banks 
of the Concho, we saw numerous saddled horses standing, and a 
crowd of men assembled under a big tree. Something unusual was 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


165 


going on there, and we rode over to investigate. 

Drawing near, we discovered a scene very familiar to the one 
witnessed a few hours earlier. The vigilants were holding another 
court. 

But instead of one lone prisoner, as before, there were now ten 
prisoners, all standing in a row under a limb big enough to support 
them all. And to make sure that there should be no lack of vic- 
tims this time, every prisoner had his hands tied behind him and 
a rope around his neck. The ropes were already passed over the 
big limb, and several men stood holding each of them, ready and 
eager to execute the court’s anticipated sentence. 

As we rode up to the crowd, I noticed that different men were 
managing this trial, the reckless, irresponsible element of the mob 
being in full control now. But in spite of this they were hearing 
both sides; or, at least, they were going through the form of doing 
so. 

“Here comes some boys that can tell us all we want to know about 
the doin’s of these chaps,” called out a vigilant, as we reined up at 
the edge of the crowd. 

And I was promptly made to dismount, and pushed into the middle 
of the circle to witness against the already condemned men. 

Most of the ten prisoners were pale and cringing, and some seem- 
ed scarcely able to stand. But one of their number stood erect, 
glaring around him, his nostrils dilating with defiance. It was Bill 
Edsell. 

While looking the prisoners over I was greatly relieved to see 
that Ben Dankens and Ame Watson were not among them. Those 
two cowboys, it afterwards appeared, had taken alarm, probably at 
the kind of crowd they found themselves among, and they had got 
away just in time. We never heard of them again. 

As briefly as possible I described our two important encounters 
with Edsell and others of the prisoners: once in the settlements, 
where they had shown us their six-shooters, and once only a few 
miles back-, where they had stood us off with Winchesters. 

After finishing what I had to tell, I slipped out of the circle and 
stood with Frank and Newt. 

“Bound to be some neck-stretchin’ this time,” whispered Newt to 
me. 

“No doubt about that,” I replied. “Those fellows deserve all 
they’re going to get, I guess; but I can’t help feeling sorry for them. 
It must be an awful, awful situation. Wish we could stop the thing 
somehow.” 

“So do I,” said Frank. “But I don’t see how it can be done. 

We stood silent, watching the proceedings as well as we could. 
Nearly everybody was on his feet now, and it was not easy to see. 
Gradually a strange feeling of horror took possession of me as I 
foresaw, in my imagination, all those ten men dangling from that 
big limb. 

Catching sight of Sheriff McCracken standing quietly at the outer 
edge of the mob, I moved round to where he was. 

“I overtook this crowd, and planned the capture,” he told me. 
“We surrounded the whole gang and made them prisoners without 
firing a shot. But when I wanted them to take the prisoners back 
to the settlements, or let me take them, they pushed me aside and 
took matters into their own hands. They won’t even let me have 
anything to do with the trial. They’ve set their bull-heads to hang 
the whole ten, and nothing on earth can stop them. I may try to 
argue them out of it later, but it will only be breath wasted. They 
won’t listen to me. I even told them that I wanttid to take Edsell 


166 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


home and hang him myself, lawfully. But they insist upon saving 
me that trouble.’’ 

Here I whispered, very cautiously, that we had caught sight of 
Renfro on our way; and I suggested that I might slip off, ride back, 
and try to hurry them. 

He fell in with the suggestion eagerly, and urged me to go, 
promising to do everything he could to delay the execution, so as 
to give me time to get the Rangers here. 

I now moved back to Frank and Newt to let them know what I 
proposed to do. They had not yet been called in to testify, and 
promised that when they were called they would prolong their tes- 
timony as much as possible. 

Soon I turned and started slowly down the valley. I was leading 
Dick, my pony, and Vic was trotting ahead of me. 

“Hey there, young feller! Whur you goin’?” a man called after 
me. “Why don’t you wait a few minutes? Somethin’s goin’ to 
happen around here.” 

“None of that for me, if you please,” I called back, without 
stopping. 

“You can testify ag’inst ’em, but you’re too chicken-hearted to 
watch the rope-business, eh?” remarked the vigilant, as he turned 
to his companions again. 

He was right. One of the things that had already occurred to 
me was that, if I did not get the Rangers here in time, I should at 
least escape witnessing the horrible spectacle. 

To guard against suspicion, I walked at a leisurely gait, some- 
times even pausing to look back, till I came to where the valley 
was overgrown with mesquites. But scarcely was I out of siorht 
among those, when I sprang into the saddle and started. For a few 
hundred yards I could not ride fast, having to pick my 'way. But 
once back in the trail we had come I urged Dick to a run. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


RANGERS, SOLDIERS AND VIGILANTS. 

S I clattered along the hoof-beaten,^ sun-parched trail, leaving 
a little fog of dust behind me, I ‘found myself wondering 



^ again and again if I should be in time to save the cattle- 
thieves from the vengeance of the mob. At any rate I would do 


my best. 


I had ridden two miles, or two and a half, when I looked north 
and discovered a party of horsemen, just coming up the river-bank. 
They were Rangers. I left the trail and hurried to meet them. 
The troop numbered between fifty and sixty, and Renfro and his 
deputy were with them. 

On meeting me they all reined up, and Renfro inquired eagerly 
how I came to be here instead of on my way to Fort Concho. 

“We learned that the soldiers were coming, and we turned back,’' 
I explained, hastily. “Bill Edsell and his whole gange have been 
captured by a great mob of settlers, and there’ll soon be a whole- 
sale lynching if you don’t get there to stop it.” 

The captain of the Rangers, who was riding by the sheriff, now 
exchanged a few hasty words with him, and asked a few questions 
of me, then shouted his orders. And scarcely were the words out 
of his mouth when the whole troop were riding at a gallop. 

I had ridden hard, and having accomplished my nurpose was 
expecting to return at an easy gait. But Dick, catching the spirit 
of the other horses, was so eager to go with the crowd that I 
loosened his bridle-rein, and away we all went together. 

Just as we reached the trail, I noticed some of the Rangers point- 
ing toward Hart’s ranch. Lookingj I saw a troop of blue-coated 
cavalry emerging from the brush, but a few hundred yards behind 
us. 

Surmising from the Rangers’ speed that there must be some 
urgency, the cavalry broke into a trot, and then into a gallop. Fas- 
ter and faster they came; and, their horses being fresher than ours, 
they were soon at our heels. 

“Do you think McCracken will be able to stave off the lynching 
till we come?” Renfro inquired of me, as we clattered along not far 
apart. 

“Hard telling,” I answered. “He’ll do his best. But if the trial 
is finished before we get there, it won’t surprise me to see all ten 
of the prisoners dangling from that big pecan limb.” 

Amid the pounding of hoofs we could scarcely make ourselves 
heard, and nothing more was said. On we clattered, soldiers and 
Rangers and officers, more than a hundred and fifty strong. Behind 
us a cloud of dust rose high in the air. And ahead of all ran little 
Vic, with her tongue out, but keeping the lead easily. Sometimes 
she looked back to see why we did not come faster. 

A few minutes later those of us in the lead reached the top of 
a slope and looked down into the Concho valley. At the far edge of 
the valley the vigilants were still grouped together, but their court 
had broken up. When first I caught sight of the big pecan, the 
dangling fieure of a man was rising in the air under it, his neck in 
a noose. Several of the mob could be seen pulling at the rope. 


168 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


Then we saw a short man — it was Sheriff McCracken — striking 
at the rope with a knife as high as he could reach. Several vigi- 
lants seized him and dragged him back. But after the dangling 
prisoner had been pulled at least ten feet above the ground, the 
little sheriff again slashed at the rope till it parted, allowing the 
victim to drop. A fierce, wild shout went up from the mob. 

Down the slope we plunged and across the valley we thundered. 
The mob, frightened by the little army charging down upon them, 
at once abandoned their purpose to execute the prisoners. 

“It’s the Rangers! The jig’s up now!” a vigilant shouted, as we 
dashed up to the crowd and drew rein. 

“And there comes the soldiers, too! What did we wait so long 
fur?” somebody else called out. 

“I told you we’d better hang* ’em first and try ’em afterwards!” 
yelled the well-known voice of the blusterer, half angrily, half tri- 
umphantly. 

Nine of the prisoners stood unharmed; but every one was as pale 
as a ghost. The man we had seen jerked up to the limb lay on the 
ground, motionless. McCracken was bending over him, loosening 
the rope that encircled and cut into his neck. 

Sheriff Renfro and the Ranger captain dismounted, and so did 
I. But both the Rangers and the soldiers sat in their saddles 
awaiting orders. 

“Is he dead?” inquired Renfro, as he made his way to where Mc- 
Cracken was working over the fallen cattle-thief. “Why, it’s Bill 
Edsell, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, it’s Edsell. No, I don’t think he’s hurt very seriously. It 
doesn’t matter, though, if he is. He brought it all on himself. They 
were trying him, and while somebody was giving evidence against 
him he suddenly began to curse the witness. Then they jerked him 
into the air. He wouldn’t have received a scratch if he’d kept his 
mouth shut. As it was, you men didn’t get here a minute too soon. 
I’d heard you coming, or I wouldn’t have dared to cut him down.” 

The captain of the Rangers inspected the prisoners closely, and 
announced that they were all desperate characters, wanted in var- 
ious places for various crimes. The ropes were now taken off their 
necks, and their hands untied. But all were hand-cuffed, and a 
guard of Rangers was placed over them. 

Re'peated attempts had been made to revive Edsell, but he still 
lay motionless. It .was now believed that his neck had been injured, 
and that he must be seriously if not fatally hurt. He was carried 
over and placed on some blankets in the shade, under the same tree 
where the other prisoners were being guarded. 

The Rangers now dismounted and went into camp here. The 
cavalry from the fort rode up the valley and camped about three- 
quarters of a mile above. 

For a while some of the vigilants seemed disappointed and sullen. 
But they had found large numbers of their stolen cattle and horses 
in the big drove, and were soon in a good humor again. They forded 
the Concho and went into camp on the other side. 

Sheriff Renfro and Sheriff McCracken held a consultation, with 
the result that our two parties camped together on the river-bank, 
a few hundred yards above the Rangers. We had all been riding 
hard, and it was important that our horses should have rest and 
grass. 

Before unsaddling, Frank and I rode out into the scattered herd 
to see if our long-sought cattle were safe at last. We found all 
three of them there, and returned to camp well satisfied. On the 
way back something occurred to me, and I looked at Frank. 

“Where’s Dugan?” I demanded. 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


169 


Sure enough, where’s Dugan — our noble Sheriff Dugan? He’s 
certainly not here. Where can all four of them be?” ♦ 

Unable to explain their disappearance, we afterwards mentioned 
the matter to McCracken and Renfro. The sheriffs were as much 
puzzled as we were. The most probable explanation seemed to be 
that Dugan’s party had encountered the desperadoes and been driv- 
en back, and had started for the settlements. They had not follow- 
ed the trail or we should have seen them. Why they had not was 
more than we could even guess. 

Provisions were scarce in all of our camps. But some of the 
vigilants came over and killed a beef, a fat two-year-old steer, and 
from them we bought what we needed. 

The vigilants had laid claim to nearly half the cattle in the drove, 
and to more than half the horses. After a consultation between the 
captain of the Rangers and Sheriffs McCracken and Renfro, it was 
decided that, as nearly all the stock must have been stolen, they 
should all be driven back to the settlements, where people who had 
lost cattle and horses could come and claim them. So all the ani- 
mals were left in the same drove, and some of the vigilants, a de- 
puty-sheriff and a Ranger or two mounted guard over them. 

After cooking and eating our dinner, and resting awhile, our 
whole party spent an hour or two in the water. The weather was 
warm, and there was much swimming in the Concho that afternoon. 
With the exception of the prisoners scarcely a man in any of our 
four camps failed to take a plunge into the river. 

After coming out of the water Frank and I dressed, then shoul- 
dered our rifles and started off down the valley in quest of game. 
When only a hundred yards or so from the Rangers’ camp we head'd 
shouting down there, and saw a man running as if for his life, 
with three or four Rangers after him. 

The fugitive was making for some brush, and seemed likely to 
get there before being overtaken. But presently the pursuers stop- 
ped and threw up their guns, and one of the shouted: 

“Halt there! Halt, or we’ll shoot!” 

The fleeing man did not stop; but, turning as he ran, he fired a 
hasty shot at the party behind him. Then the Rangers’ rifles 
roared out, the reports echoing from the hills loudly. And almost 
at the same instant the fugitive dropped to the ground. 

“One of the prisoners has got away!” I cried. 

“And they’ve shot him!” exclaimed Frank as, with one accord, 
we started toward the fallen man. Several other Rangers were 
now running, every one with a gun in his hand. 

There was a ring of riflemen surrounding the prostrate prisoner 
when we came to where he lay. To our no small surprise he proved 
to be Bill Edsell. 

The desperado had been “playing ’possum,” as one of the Rangers 
expressed it. He had lain as if half-dead, till his guards got a few 
yards from him, and turned thein backs. Then he sprang up, 
seized a Winchester leaning against a tree, and started for the 
mesquites. Once among those, he would have stood a good chance 
to escape. And he would certainly have reached them if the Rang- 
ers’ bullets had not stopped him. 

Edsell was lying on the ground, not dead, but bleeding from sev- 
eral wounds. He was taken up and carried back to the Rangers’ 
camp, both Frank and I helping. There we laid him on some blank- 
ets at the foot of a tree, and made him as comfortable as possible. 
The Ranger captain now began to examine Bill’s wounds. 

The wounded outlaw was perhaps thirty-flve years old. His face, 
while far from being a good one, was by no means of the villainous 
type. Just now he was very pale, and his eyes kept wandering from 


170 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


one of us to another, with a look that haunted me long afterwards. 
The sun was near to setting; and it was easy to see that the sun 
of his life was also near its setting. 

It was a strange scene — that scene out there in the wilds— ;-one 
that I shall never forget. The wounded, bleeding man lay quietly 
on his rude bed, while around him stood those grim riflemen who 
had brought him down, leaning on their guns in silence. The 
Ranger captain, who seemed to know something of surgery, was 
kneeling by the wounded man, trying in vain to check the flow of 
blood. 

“Edsell,” he said, ‘T must tell you the truth. You have only a 
short time to live. Is there anything we can do for you? If there 
is, speak out; we’ll do it gladly.” 

The desperado shook his head, slowly. “Nothing — nothing at all, 
captain. But I thank you,” he replied, very quietly, almost gently. 

“Why didn’t you stop man? Didn’t you know they’d have to 
kill you?” 

“It was this or a rope, and I preferred — this,” was the answer. 
All the desperado seemed gone from the man. 

“Have you no friends or relatives, Bill?” 

“I have many relatives, and used to have plenty of friends, cap- 
tain. But they all think me dead. And they’ll soon think right.” 

“But have you no last word to send to them. Bill?” 

The dying desperado shook his head. “No word. I don’t want 
them to know. My real name is neither Bill nor Edsell. That’s a 
name I chose to hide myself under when I started on the road — to 
this. No matter what my real name is — or was. That’s my secret.” 

For several minutes there was utter silence. Nobody spoke or 
moved. What the dying outlaw’s thoughts were — who cap tell? 
They must have been busy with the past. At length he snoke: 

“Captain, is there anything sadder- — can there be anything sad- 
der than a wasted life?” 

“No, I guess not, Bill — I guess not.” 

Another silence followed, and at length the dying man spoke again : 

“Who could have foretold, when I was a little boy, that I should 
end up away out here, and like this — like this — like this?” 

The last words were little more than whispered, as if spoken to 
himself. He closed his eyes for a few moments, but opened them to 
say: 

“If we could only call back. If we could only undo.” 

Now he seemed to fall asleep. His face, pale at flrst, had begun 
to flush with fever. Soon he was talking in his sleep, or delirium. 
Perhaps it was both. 

Strange words were those that fell from the lips of this man 
of crime. In his dying delirium he was a child again. Even his 
tones seemed softened. 

“Mother, please let us go. All the other boys are going. Won’t 
you let us go, too? Yes, we’ll be good boys. We won’t go in where 
the water’s deep. Good-bye, mother! We’ll not stay long. Come 
on, boys! She says we may go. Here, Carlo! Here, Carlo! Come 
along, doggy! Carlo likes to swim as well as any of us!” 

And so he prattled on — prattled on, for several minutes. It was 
not always the same. Sometimes he seemed to be in school, or at 
other times on the play-ground, or on his way to or from school. 
At last he said: 

“Boys, I don’t feel very well. Something’s the matter with my 
head. Let’s sit down here in the shade a little while, and maybe 
I ’ll — feel — better. ” 

Those were his last words. A little later the Ranger captain, who 
had been holding Edsell’s wrist, rose to his feet in the dusk and 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


171 


said, in husky tones, his eyes swimming with tears: 

‘‘Well, he’s gone. Boys, I’ve seen a good many of his kind die. 
Some die praying, and some die cursing, and some die with words 
on their lips you wish you could forget. But I never saw one die 
like that before. Wicked as the fellow was, there must have been 
some good in him. Pity it couldn’t have been got out.” 

We dug the desperado’s grave under a spreading-topped pecan — 
dug it that night, by the light of a smoky lantern found in the cov- 
ered wagon. Next morning, between daybreak and sunrise, all the 
men in our various camps assembled, and what was mortal of him 
that had been called Bill Edsell was wrapped in his blanket and 
lowered into the ^hallow grave. 

Just as some one was about to commence shoveling in earth. 
Sheriff Renfro motioned him to wait, and stepped to the grave-side. 

“Men,” he said, “it seems that at least a few words ought to be 
spoken. I don’t know anything good to say of this man, so I’m go- 
ing to say nothing. Silence is kinder than words. But there must 
have been some good in him. God knows. And God knows, too, 
why he went wrong. There’s just one word more that I want to 
add; and that is to repeat what he himself said: ^‘Is there anything 
sadder — can there be anything sadder than a wasted life?’>i’ 

A few minutes later the grave was filled. And an hour *later all 
of our parties, Vigilants, cavalry and Rangers — nearly two hundred 
and sixty men — with the covered wagon, and twelve or thirteen 
hundred head of cattle and horses, were marching toward Fort 
Concho. ; 1 i 















CHAPTER XXXII. 


THE MARCH TO THE SETTLEMENTS. 


W HILE our lengthy cavalcade was filing by Hart’s ranch, those 
of the vigilants who had cattle there turnbd aside and took 
them out of his pens. Hart surrendered them without a 
word of protest, and even helped to cut them out. 

The procession moved on, but Newt and Frank and I remained. 
Hart treated us very cordially, and it was with no little regret that 
we had to decline his urgent invitation to stay with him a few days. 

He counted out to Frank and me every cent we had paid him 
for our cattle, and then all the money still due us for cattle-driving. 
He also handed us a letter he had written to Judge Wheeler. 

“But you paid for our cattle,” objected Frank. 

'“What if I did? That’s my lookout, not yours. Jasper Hart don’t 
ask you or anybody else to stand between him and his blunders. 
You boys did me good, honest work, and you’re well entitled to your 
pay. When I stopped you yesterday mornin’, I was goin’ to hand 
you this money, and then give you a good cussin’ to boot for stealin’ 
off in the dark like you did. But cussin’s don’t go any more. And 
after bearin’ you tell why you done it, I eain’t say as I blame you 
much. Guess I’d have done about the same thing in your place. 
You made a mistake, though, in thinkin’ I’d have treated you boys 
like I treated the two spitfires that run onto us that day. Of 
course if you’d acted like they did, you might have got the same 
kind of a send-off. But — ” 

“But if we had gone to you and told you the straight of the mat- 
ter, what would you have done?” I wanted to know. 

He looked thoughtful. “Well, I might have been a little out of 
sorts about it. In fact, ruther guess I’d have got purty hot under 
thj collar. And I might have said things I oughn’t to have said. 
That’s one of my failin’s, or has been.” 

“But you would h^ive believed us?” I asked. 

“Yes, I would. Why shouldn’t I? You’d never lied to me, or 
played any sharp tricks on me. I know I would; because when I 
got back to camp and found your letter, I didn’t doubt a word of it. 
I might have flared up and ripped and cussed around a little, because 
I’d been taken in. But after it was all over you’d have got your 
cattle, and that without payin’ a cent for ’em. No doubt about that.” 

“Then I’m heartily sorry we didn’t tell you, as we had all the 
time intended to,” I assured him. 

“So am I,” spoke up Frank. “We felt mean over sneaking off — 
over having to sneak off like we did. And it would have saved us 
a world of trouble and worry in the long run.” 

“Well, let’s drop that, boys,” said the ranchman. “It’s all past 
and gone. And a fellow that makes as many blunders as I do 
would be mightily out of place findin’ fault with you boys for mak- 
in’ a little one once in a while.” 

We remained at the ranch an hour or more. Then Hart saddled 
his horse and rode with us a few miles. When the time came for 
him to turn back, we all stopped. • 

“Well, boys,” he said, addressing Frank and me, “I’m glad you’ve 
got your cattle at last. You’ve certainly had a long hunt. Hope 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


173 : 


you’ll get home with ’em all safe and sound. If you ever want a 
job at cowboyin’, any of you, come out to the ranch here and you 
shall have it. Maybe you’ll find me a better man to work for, and 
a little better man all around. I hain’t been what I ought to have 
been. I own up to that. I hain’t never stole anything. You told 
the truth there. And I’ve never bought anything that I knowed for 
certain was stole. But a good many times I’ve shut my eyes to keep 
from seein’. It won’t be so hereafter, though, if I know myself. 

“Somehow I’ve always been pushed into a hard crowd. When I 
was a boy, I never had any parents that I could remember, nor any 
home nor bringin’ up nor schoolin . I was grown before I could 
read my own name in print, much less write it. What little readin’^ 
and writin’ and cipherin’ I can do I picked up myself. And mighty 
hard pickin’ I found it. Maybe if I’d had the chance that other 
boys have, I’d have been a half-way decent sort of man. Anyhow,. 
I’ve always wanted to be. I’ve always been with such a hard crowd, 
it seemed like I just had to use some of their devilish ways to keep 
’em from doin’ me up. But if I’d been the right sort, maybe I’d 
have hunted up a better crowd. Every boy that’s got a home ought 
to stay in it just as long as he can.” 

He remained thoughtfully silent for a few moments, then went on: 

“That was a close call I had yesterday, and it made me feel mighty 
solemn. And I feel solemn yet. I don’t mind tollin’ you, boys, that 
Jasper Hart’s goin’ to toe the chalk-line a long sight closer here- 
after than he has been doin’. 

“And there’s another thing. Until now I’ve always stuck to my 
friends and made it hot for my enemies. But the way you boys 
stood by me yesterday, just after I’d started in to tell you what I 
thought of you — that has kind of set me to thinkin’ that maybe, 
after all, that way is a long jump ahead of mine. So I’ve made up 
my mind that hereafter I’ll stick to my friends as close as I ever 
did, but I won’t bother to get even with my enemies. In fact, if 
I find one of ’em in a pinch, don’t know but what I’ll give ’im a 
little friendly pull, just to see how it makes ’im feel, and how it 
makes me feel.” 

After we had talked with him a few minutes longer, he gather- 


up his reins and shook hands with us. 

“Well, good-bye, boys! Good luck to you all! If you ever get 
into trouble, come straight to Jasper Hart if you can. And if you 
cain’t, let ’im know, and he’ll come to you.” 

He wheeled his horse, waved his hand to us, and galloped away 
back the road. I have never seen him since. 

With all his faults, I have only the kindest recollections of the 
impulsive, fiery ranchman. Undoubtedly he was honest according 
to his lights. And though his lights were rather dim, he was grop- 
ing his way toward better things. Let us hope that he found them. 

We three rode on our way. We had traveled a mile or two fur- 
ther, and were passing through a brushy country, when we caught 
a glimpse of some strange-looking objects in the road ahead of us. 

Wondering what they could be, we all broke into a gallop.^ But 
when we came to where the objects had been, they had vanished. 
While puzzling over the mystery, we heard somebody calling to us 
from the brush. We reined up suddenly, and four men came partly, 
bashfully into view among the bushes. And, to our amazement, 
they were all utterly naked! , 

At first we sat staring at them. Soon we recognized them as 
Sheriff Dugan and his three deputies. ^ i 

“What have you done with your clothes? called out r rank, 
laughingly. “Did you go in swimming and get them stolen?” 

. “No we didn’t,” growled Dugan. Later he came closer and ex- 


174 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


plained. “WeM come upon one of that desperado gang, and had ar- 
rested him and handcuffed him hard and fast, when the whole gang 
surrounded us and got the drop on us. First they disarmed us, and 
then made us dismount. After that they marched us off two or three 
miles across the prairie and through the brush. We thought they 
must be going to kill us. But at last they made us strip off every- 
thing, and then they told us to skedaddle. And about the time we 
started they began to shoot the ground full of holes around our 
feet. We felt lucky to escape with our lives. We started for that 
ranch; but there are so many prickly pears and mesquite thorns and 
such like, and we’re so tender-footed, it takes us forever to get any- 
where. We didn’t strike the trail till a few minutes ago.’’ 

“You couldn’t find that ranch by traveling this direction,” said 
I. fou’ve already passed it.” 

“Seems to me I’ve seen you boys somewhere before,” Dugan was 
now looking straight at me. 

“Of course you have,” was my answer. I was scarcely able to 
keep from laughing at the odd figures made by these nude officers 
of the law. And then Frank and I explained when and under what 
circumstances they had seen us. 

“That was a big mistake I made that day,” Dugan admitted, 
gloomily. 

“Well, yes, I guess it was — I rather guess it was,” answered 
Frank. “But things have about evened up, after all. The men you 
refused to arrest that day were some of the same gang that played 
this joke on you.” 

“I never did believe that cattle-buyin’ outfit was as innocent as 
they pretended to be,” growled a naked deputy-sheriff, who was 
trying to pick a piece of mesquite thorn out of his foot. 

“Didn’t have a very comfortable sleep last night, I guess,” re- 
marked Newt. 

“No, we didn’t,” grumbled another deputy. “We bedded up like 
pigs in some high grass; but we nearly froze along toward day.” 

After discussing the situation with the four officers, we let them 
have our slickers and one blanket to protect them from the sun; and 
then we rode on to overtake our party and bring back some horses, 
and their clothes if we could find them. 

We rode rapidly, but it was a good while later when we came up 
with the long, slow-moving procession. We found the four saddles 
in the wagon. The horses belonging to Dugan’s party were in the 
drove, but we did not know them, and we caught others instead. 

But not one piece of the nude party’s wearing apparel was to be 
found. As a last resort, we got permission from the Ranger captain 
to question his prisoners. The prisoners grinned, but for some 
reason declined to give any information, except to say the owners 
of those clothes would never see them again. The clothes must 
have been hidden somewhere, or perhaps destroyed. 

Frank and I rode back, leading four saddled horses, until we met 
the four men. And a comical picture they made as they came hob- 
bling along the road, the deputies, arrayed in our slickers, and Du- 
gan himself with the blanket wrapped around him. Very glad in- 
deed were they to be mounted again. 

Though the four certainly made ludicrous figures on horseback, 
Frank and I refrained from laughing as far as possible. But when 
we overtook the rest of our party, they were less considerate. The 
hailstorm of jokes and gibes and jeers that suddenly broke upon the 
four officers was something frightful. In fact, the ridicule and 
laughter were so uproarious that I felt half-sorry for them, and 
was rather glad when they dropped to the rear to escape. 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


175 


About noon our cavalcade halted for dinner. We remained in 
camp an hour or two, then took up our line of march ap^ain. 

The Rangers, who wore no uniforms, led the way, and the blue- 
coated cavalry rode next. And after these tramped the long-strung- 
out drove of cattle and horses. The vigilants brought up the rear, 
pushing along the drove. Both the Rangers and the soldiers could 
have outmarched the cattle, doubtless; but they had been riding 
hard, and did not care to do so. And possibly they preferred to 
remain near enough to keep an eye on that big troop of armed vig- 
ilants. 

During the afternoon Frank and I helped to drive the cattle for 
an hour or two. Afterwards we rode with one of the vigilants — 
the one whom we had spent a night with, and who had put us on 
Hart’s trail. In the course of the conversation he said: 

‘T was thinkin’ of somethin’ today. Seein’ that big, spotted steer 
of yours over there, and bearin’ his bell, reminded me of it. Seems 
mighty strange, don’t it, that that old fellow should have stirred 
up this whole rumpus? All these two hundred and fifty or sixty 
armed men are here just on that brute’s account.” 

“Well, some of us are,” I answered. “If Lep hadn’t run away 
from home, Frank Booth and I wouldn’t have been here, and Mr. 
Renfro wouldn’t have been here. And if he hadn’t gone after the 
Rangers, they wouldn’t have been here.” 

“That’s right. And if you boys hadn’t spent that night at my 
house, none of us settlers would have made this trip out here. And 
if we hadn’t come, the soldiers wouldn’t — couldn’t have followed us. 
And without us or the soldiers or the Rangers, the cattle-thieves 
couldn’t have been captured, and they’d have been drivin’ all these 
cattle and horses further out into the wild country.” 

“How did our spending the night at your house have anything to 
do with bringing all you settlers out here?” I wanted to know. 

“Why, you boys told me how Dugan had treated you, and that 
stirred me up; and I talked it around to all my neighbors, and got 
them stirred up. They kept talkin’ it around till the same gang of 
cattle-thieves passed through on their way west — passed on the 
other side of the county. And about the time they passed, or a lit- 
tle later, cattle and horses began to disappear between days. Then 
a lot of us got together at our school-house and denounced Dugan 
for his slowness. That was what started him out.” 

“That explains it,” laughed Frank. “I knew there was something.” 

“Yes, he never would have moved without it. But by that time 
we’d got so worked up over the matter that all that had lost cattle 
and horses, and some that hadn’t, banded together and struck out 
after the thieves. A good many turned back after a few days, but 
some of us didn’t. As we followed the trail, other men that had 
lost cattle and horses kept failin’ in with us, till we s:ot to be up- 
wards of eighty strong. Most of us come from the other side of the 
river; but there’s some from this side. If there hadn’t been a big 
bunch of us, we never would have followed the thieves away out here. 

“So, you see, it’s just as I said at first. Your runaway steer is 
at the bottom of this whole thing. Strange, too.” 

“Well, it’s a pretty big dust for one old, hard-necked plow-ox to 
kick up’” I answered, curiously. For just at this time we were 
passing over a ridge. Being at the rearmost end of the line, we 
could look down upon our whole marching cavalcade, stretching out 
for a mile and a half. And a striking picture it made. 

An hour or two before sunset our big company camped for the 
nip-ht After unsaddling our horses and lariating them out, Frank 
and i shouldered our rifles and went hunting. Frank flagged an 
antelope and I brought it down with a bullet. We returned to camp 


176 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


carrying the game between us. A number of other hunters had 
gone out, and other game was brought in. Another beef had also 
been killed, and nobody went to bed hungry that night. 

Some of the Rangers were shooting at a target when we returned, 
and I strolled over to watch them. They invited me to try my rifle, 
and were as much surprised as was I myself when I succeeded in 
placing a bullet so near the mark that there were only two shots 
better than mine. 

Just before nightfall, having found an unused lariat in the wag- 
on, I went and caught Lep out of the drove, and was leading him 
over to a place near Renfro’s camp, when I heard my named called. 
Looking, I saw Renfro beckoning to me. He was standing with 
three other men. 

As I approached, I noticed that the group was made up of Sheriff 
McCracken, Colonel Davis, in command of the United States cav- 
alry, and the captain of the Rangers. Renfro introduced me to the 
two commanders, and after they had shaken hands with me, very 
cordially, too, he said: 

‘Travis, I’ve just been telling these gentlemen about you and 
Frank, and your long, adventurous cattle-hunt; and that we’re all 
here, under arms, because this steer ran away from home. Here he 
is, gentlemen! Here’s the long-horned fellow that set this whole 
expedition on foot.” 

“Is that literally true, Renfro,” inquired the colonel, with a half- 
amused, half-incredulous look on his face. 

“Yes, I’ve no doubt it is. Don’t know for certain that I’d have 
thought of it myself. But I happened to get into conversation with 
one of the settlers today — one that the boys staid all night with 
some time ago — and he was telling me all about it.” And Renfro 
repeated what the man had told him. 

“So that fellow took his horns and ran away from home, and now 
it requires a little army of us to get him back, does it?” observed 
the Ranger captain, with a smile. 

“That’s just about the size of it, it seems,” McCracken remark- 
ed. “He’s an astonishing steer, and his history is almost as mar- 
velous as his horns.” 

For several minutes I stood with the four officers, civil and mili- 
tary, answering their questions. Incidentally I mentioned the con- 
trast between the beginning of my ox-hunt — one bare-headed boy 
on foot — and its present proportions. They all seemed much inter- 
ested, and some of them much amused. 

Finally I went on, leading Lep, and lariated him near Dick. I 
was resolved that he should not escape from me again. • 

There was an interesting, picturesque scene as darkness settled 
down upon our camp. Though the day had been warm, the Sep- 
tember night was somewhat chilly, and numerous camp-fires were 
ablaze up and down the valley. And around every camp-fire sat a 
group of men, talking and laughing, and some of them singing. A 
jolly, good-natured company were we all — except the nine prisoners 
and Dugan’s party. 

The latter were made miserable by the pokes and gibes hurled at 
them wherever they showed themselves. They had not found any 
clothes, and were still going about bare-footed, with blanke+s tied 
around them. The fact that they had been stripped to the skin by 
thieves whom they had once refused to arrest had already spread 
over the whole camp, and robbed them of all sympathy. The vigi- 
lants from Dugan’s own county were especially sarcastic toward 
their crest-fallen sheriff. 

Neither Frank nor I was disposed to be revengeful. It must be 
confessed, though, that we rather enjoyed these jokes for a time. 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


177 


But it seemed to me that the ridicule was kept up too long. The 
lour nien finally escaped from it by going apart and establishing a 
camp by themselves. 

Both Frank and I spent an hour on herd duty that night. Next 
morning we were all awakened by the cavalry bugle; and after 
br^kfast we began our day’s march to the same call. 

During this our second day Frank and I got acquainted with sev- 
eral soldiers and Rangers, and learned many of their interesting 
experiences. This was our first opportunity to know people in 
strange callings, and we made the most of it. 

While we were riding by Sheriff McCracken, he inquired how old 
we were. On being told, he expressed his disappointment. 

If you were only a little older, and were up in my county, I’d 
appoint you deputy-sheriffs,” he told us. ‘‘You’re just the kind of 
fellows I need. When I get on the trail of a law-breaker, I want 
to stay with him like a blood-hound till I get him and I want some- 
body that will stay with me without grumbling. And you boys are 
certainly stayers. You’ve proved that.” 

Later in the day the captain of the Rangers stopped us while we 
were passing near him, and also inquired our ages. Then he told 
us that if we cared for service with his company we could come to 
him when we were a year or two older, and find a place open. 

The tenacity with which we had followed the cattle-trail had 
appealed to him, he informed us. And he also admitted that my 
good shot in the target practice of the day before had something to 
do with his offer. And a few words that he accidentally let drop 
convinced me that he had heard of my make-believe defiance of the 
mob, and in consequence had a much-exaggerated opinion of our 
courage. 

We expressed our appreciation of his offer, and assured him that 
we would not fail to consider the matter when the time came. He 
related a good number of his most interesting experiences, and drew 
a pleasing picture of the wild, free life that he and his hard-riding, 
straight-shooting riflemen were leading. It was easy to see that 
he was very fond of the life. And he also had something to say of 
the good that he and his Rangers were doing in suppressing every 
form of lawlessness. 

On the whole, he left both of us very favorably impressed. We 
afterwards talked not a little of what he had said. But our plans 
for getting an education stood in the way of our seriously consid- 
ering the offer. 

Still later in the day we happened to be riding near Colonel Da- 
vis, when he motioned to us to come over and ride by him. He made 
numerous inquiries about where we lived, and our parents, and also 
about our plans in life. On learning that we were both eager to 
secure an education, he asked why we did not try for West Point. 

Ho himself was a graduate of that famous military academy, and 
believed that there was no other place equal to it for getting a 
thorough education. When I objected that I had never supposed I 
should like a soldier’s life, he assured me that it was not necessary 
for a West Point graduate to become a soldier, except in time of war. 

Then he talked for an hour or more, telling us of the life and dis- 
cipline in the school itself, and later of the opportunities that op- 
ened to any one with a military education. 

The man himself was so intelligent and so gentlemanly that, by 
the time he had finished, we were both somewhat enthusiastic over 
the matter. He advised us to attend some good school for a year 
or two, and then, if we still thought favorably of what he had sug- 
gested, to write him for advice as to how to proceed. 


178 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


Night found our party within a few miles of Fort Concho. We all 
went into camp except the cavalry, which pushed on to the fort. 

The rest of us arrived at the fort early next morning. While 
there I saw Colonel Davis again, and again he urged me to keep a 
West Point education in my plans. I assured him that I would, 
and promised to write to him before deciding the matter finally. 

A few miles east of the fort, all but twelve or fifteen of the Rang- 
ers left us. Those that went with us had the prisoners in charge. 
A little later Sheriff McCracken and his deputies set off toward the 
northeast, following a branch road. 

Very zealous for the enforcement of the law was the valiant little 
sheriff. His party and ours — Renfro’s — rode together during the 
last few miles, and he talked much on that subject. 

“The people of Texas — the people that have made and are mak- 
ing the state what it is — are and always have been law-abiding,” 
he declared. “But some fool set the impression afloat over east and 
up north that Texas is a place where every man is a law to himself, 
and a lot of other fools have flocked here under the delusion that 
they can do just as they please. They’ve got to be taught better. 
They’ve got to be taught that there’s only one alternative to sub- 
mitting to the law, and that is to die. It may cost some of us our 
lives to teach them that lesson, but they’ve got it to learn.” 

Just at this point we came to the forks of the road. Here he 
and his deputies shook hands with all of us; then they rode away. 
We were never to see him again. 

Brave Sheriff McCracken! Strong arm of the law — one of the 
strongest arms of the many-armed law! Two years longer he lived 
to make his name a terror to evil-doers. Then he went down before 
a desperado’s bullet. He was only one of numerous officers who 
fell as martyrs to law-enforcement during those troubled days. 

Sheriff Dugan and his three followers also left us near Fort 
Concho. They had obtained some worn-out, cast-off uniforms and 
other nondescript garments at the fort; and, arrayed in these, they 
pushed ahead to escape the ridicule that had pelted them merci- 
lessly wherever they went. They soon left us behind, and we did 
not see them again. 

Frank and I had already got acquainted with a number of the 
vigilants; and during the rest of our journey we came to know more 
of them. Some were reckless, harum-scarum fellows, but others 
were sensible enough. On the last morning we were with them 
Judson, the man who had defended Hart, happened to be riding by 
me. 

“It was you that knocked that little business with the cattle- 
thieves in the head, wasn’t it?” he wanted to know. 

“Well, I had something to do with it.” I admitted. “I rode back 
for the Rangers. And, as it happened, I brought the soldiers at the 
same time.” 

“That’s what I guessed, when I saw you gallop up with ’em. 
Well, I was mad as blazes iust about then. Nobody wanted to hang 
the whole outfit worse than I did, or any higher than I did. And, 
to tell the truth, I still doubt whether them rascals was worth sav- 
in’. One of ’em wasn’t, I know. Leastways, it didn’t do ’im .much 
good. But now that it’s all past and gone. I’m the gladdest kind 
it fell throup-h like it did. That’s a thing a feller can do mighty 
easy while he’s hot, and don’t like to think about after he cools off.” 

At the edge of the settlements our company broke up. A few of 
the vigilants turned south, but most of them kept on eastward, all 
driving their recovered cattle and horses. The Rangers also rode 
south, to deliver their prisoners at various jails, wherever they were 
most wanted. 

We of Renfro’s party took the unclaimed cattle and horses, and 
also the wagon, and drove north. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


A TRIUMPHANT HOME-COMING. 

A FEW miles from the county-seat of his own county Renfro 
found a pasture for our ^ood-sized drove of unclaimed cat- 
tle and horses,” and shut them in till the owners could come 
and claim them. He expected to advertise the fact that many stol- 
en animals were here. Newt remained near the pasture to look af- 
ter the drove, but the sheriff rode on home, and Frank and I went 
out to where Frank’s sisters and brother-in-law were visiting. 

Next day Stella rode to town with us on horseback. Accompan- 
ied by the sheriff and Nannie we went out to the pasture. And 
there Stella positively identified Lep and the two younger cattle as 
the ones she had described in her testimony in couit. 

The sheriff was now authorized to release us from our bonds. But 
district court was still in session, and in view of the delay he thought 
it better to take us before Judge Wheeler again, that that stickler 
for technicalities might discharge us himself. 

Besides having Stella’s evidence, we had brought with us a letter 
from Hart to the judge. It stated that while he had once bought 
the three cattle, and had supposed that he owned them, he now 
knew that Frank and I were the real owners, and had been at the 
time we ran them off from his herd. 

The judge now stated that the proof of our innocence was as con- 
clusive as it could possibly be, and he formally discharged us before 
a crowded court-room, with an ample apology for the trouble the 
mistake had caused us. 

When he had concluded the whole court-room applauded, and the 
judge, instead of reproving the crowd for it, merely gazed out at 
the window. 

We all went to Renfro’s for dinner. And a lively time we had 
talking over our recent experiences. We had already surrendered 
our arms, and after dinner Renfro paid us for our services as de- 
puty-sheriffs. 

This money was very welcome to me. Added to what I had re- 
ceived from Hart, it would enable me to get home with an amount 
in my pocket equivalent to ordinary wages for all the time I had 
lost from farm work. Thus my long trip would really cost me 
nothing. 

A little later we shook hands with Newt and wished him good- 
bye. He was starting on a long journey to eastern Texas, where 
his father and mother lived. 

Having full and undisputed possession of Lep at last, I was now 
eager to get started homeward. But Frank would not hear to my 
returning without him. His friends wanted to go back with us, and 
shortened their stay for that purpose. We waited for them two or 
three days while resting our horses. 

But at last we were on our way hom.e. While passing through 
the little county-seat, we stopped to take leave of Sheriff Renfro 
and his family, and some of other friends there. Then we moved 
on, the snring wagon in the lead, and Frank and I driving our three 
cattle behind. 

For two or three days our little party traveled alon'^. We camped 


180 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


wherever night overtook us, setting up a tent for Stella and her 
sister. The rest of us slept under the spring-wagon, or near it. We 
did not travel fast, and usually lay by a good while at* noon. 

One feature of the journey was both pleasant and embarrassing 
to me. Stella persisted in looking upon me as, a sort of hero, and 
all my protests and denials would not abate her ardor. 

“Frank told us all about how you defied the whole mob away out 
there in the wilderness, and made them back down,” she said. ^ “Oh, 
I just wish I could have seen you!” Her dark eyes were shining. 

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t,” answered I. “You’d have seen me 
half scared out of my senses.” 

“No such thing!” she declared, indignantly. “My brother don’t 
tell things that are not so. And he says you were not scared at 
all, and that you looked mad enough to fight the whole crowd.” 

“That’s because Frank wasn’t in my boots. If he had been, he’d 
have known better.” 

But the girl calmly ignored all my protests. That was the kind 
of thing that would appeal to a very young lady of fourteen, and 
she was determined to believe it. 

“Oh, I just know you’ll be another Colonel Travis some day,” she 
declared with more disposition to “gush” than I had thought her 
capable of. “If there’s another Alamo you’ll be in it.” 

“Not if I 'can help myself. Do you want me cut to pieces by 
Greasers?” 

“You know I don’t mean that,” she answered, more thoughtfully. 

Just before camping time, on our first day after crossing the Col- 
orado, we found ourselves passing through an immigrant camn of 
twenty wagons and more on both sides of the road. And before 
Frank and I had recognized anybody, we were being hailed from 
half a dozen camps. 

Now we recognized ten or twelve of our former traveling cowi- 
panions, the vigilants. Among these was Judson, the big, flaxen- 
haired, sandy-bearded man, and old Mr. Groves — Judge Groves they 
called him now — who had presided at Hart’s trial. 

Their party, they now informed us, had traveled far, having jour- 
neyed all the way from eastern Missouri in their wagons. While 
in this very camp they had most of their horses stolen; and from 
here about half of their men had followed the trail, soon joining a 
much larger force of vigilants. And they had kept following, as 
we already knew, till they found their stolen teams in the hands of 
Edsell’s gang, a hundred and sixty miles beyond the settlements, 
and brought them back. Since returning they had remained (Quietly 
in camp. 

They had expected to form a settlement out here somewhere; but 
most of them disliked the country, and they were undecided what 
to do. 

Our little party went into camp only a few hundred yards beyond 
the big one. Our tent was soon set up, and our animals were wa- 
tered at a near-by creek and lariated to bushes. I had bought a 
long rope for the purpose, and Lep was now kept at the end of it 
every night. Usually I tied him as near the camp as possible. And 
every time I happened to wake I would rise to my elbow and look 
for him. And even after that I always looked again in the morn- 
ing, half expecting to find him gone, so many times had he es- 
caped from me. 

After supper our whole party walked back to the other camp. 
We had been invited to attend a meeting there. 

All the travelers had assembled around one big camp-fire, for the 
purpose of determining, if possible, what they should do. The wo- 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


181 


men and girls were sitting on chairs and spring seats and boxi&s, 
and the men and boys on logs and stumps and the ground. 

I dropped down on the grass, by one • of the men I had got ac- 
quainted with on our way back from the Fort Concho country. 

Judge Groves presided. First one person then another got up to 
speak. There was much rambling talk; for nobody seemed to know 
what he wanted to do. 

When I had first heard the judge’s name, that day in the vigi- 
lants’ court, the night I had spent with Sam Groves, the half-crazy 
shepherd, came back to me very vividly. But so many exciting 
events had followed, that I had forgotten all about the matter un- 
til now. Tonight, however, there seemed to be some slight, inde- 
finable resemblance between the gray-haired man and the hermit 
shepherd. I whispered to my neighbor: 

“Judge Groves comes from Missouri, does he?” 

“No. Most of us come from Missouri, but two or three families 
fell in with us on the way. Groves is from West Virginia. He got 
with us just as we was startin’. He’d been travelin’ alone before, 
but he’s stuck to us close ever since. Fine old man.” 

I recalled that the shepherd had told me he was from Virginia. 
But if he had something to hide he had probably dropped off the 
first part of the name. At any rate, I resolved to have a 'talk with 
the Judge himself. But my informant had not finished: 

“Judge Groves has got a son out here somewhere, but he cain’t 
find ’im, or hear a word of ’im, and he’s mightily worried about it. 
Hain’t heard from ’im for a year or two, it seems. The old man’s 
pore, like the rest of us, and he’s druv all the way from West Vir- 
ginia, him and his wife and two girls, to find his boy. We come by 
whur young Groves used to ranch it, but he’d left there about a 
year before, with his flock of sheep, and started out this way. That’s 
all we could learn about ’im.” 

“Do you know his son’s first name?” 

“No. Don’t believe I do. Guess I’ve heard it, but I’ve forgot.” 

Now I was fully determined to have a talk with the old man. 

My neighbor soon began to question me as to where I lived, and 
the kind of country. I described it as well as I could, and he said; 

“Well now, that’s the very country I’m lookin’ fur myself. And 
it might suit all the rest of us, too. We want a timber country, 
but not a broken country. This is too rough for lis. S’pose you 
stand up and tell ’em what kind of a country you live in.” 

I objected to this; and soon the man himself stood up and re- 
peated what I had told him. Much interest was quickly aroused, 
and in response to many calls I got upon my feet and gave some 
further information. Then I announced that I would answer ques- 
tions; and for at least half an hour questions rained upon me. 

I was already enthusiastic over our new country, with its rich 
soil and cheap lands, and for various reasons I was eager to have it 
settled. So I pictured its beauty and fertility and great posibili- 
ties in glowing colors — so glowing that I afterwards reproached 
myself for exaggerating. But time has proved that I was under 
rather than over the truth. 

When the meeting was about to break up, several announced their 
readiness to start for my promised land next morning. Others 
were undecided, but nobody was outspoken against it. 

After the meeting I found Frank, and told him what I had learn- 
ed of Judge Groves; and together we approached the old man and 
had a talk with him. His delight, and the delight of his wife and 
daughters, was well worth seeing when we informed them where 
the lost member of their family could be found. 

They invited us to their camp, to talk with them about Sam. 


182 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


But we made an excuse, not caring to tell them all we knew. How- 
ever, they announced their .intention of setting out with us next 
morning, no matter what jthe rest of their party did. 

But when morning came we found that the whole party had de- 
cided to go with us. And the sun was not very high when our 
lengthy caravan got in motion. 

Frank and I now led the way, driving our cattle. The spring-wa- 
gon followed us, and twenty-four white-topped wagons were strung 
out behind the spring-wagon. 

The rest of the journey home may be told very briefly. We 
passed through the mountainous country again, and Frank and I 
stopped a few minutes at the water-mill, to talk with the miller. 
The Cowhouse, which had given us so much trouble, was scarcely 
knee-deep when we crossed it again. And our raft lay high and 
dry near the south bank. We halted for a few minutes at the house 
where we had left the wildcat and panther skins; and after talking 
with the bearded settler there we were not surprised, when passing- 
the haunted cabin, to see a wisp of feather smoke floating upward 
from its chimney. Somebody had moved in. 

As our caravan neared the home of the Booths Frank and I be- 
gan to grow uncomfortable. We had not yet summoned up courage 
to tell Judge Groves and his family of the mental condition they 
would find Sam in. It seemed a pity to spoil their pleasant antic- 
ipations with such disagreeable news. But it would undoubtedly 
be better to tell them something in advance, than to subject them 
to the shock of discovering his condition for themselves. 

Oldham, Frank’s brother-in-law, finally took -the task off our 
hands. He explained that the trouble was wholly due to loneliness 
and would doubtless pass away of itself when Sam had friends to 
keep him company. 

And that, I may add here, was what actually happened. A few 
years later I met Sam, then a prosperous farmer and a very differ- 
ent-appearing man. In allusion to the time I had staid with him, 
he said: “Yes, I certainly did have it bad that night.” 

Before the family left us we learned that they were from the' 
mountains of West Virginia. The exact cause of Sam’s leaving 
home we did not learn till later. But it afterwards came out that 
the young fellow had been made drunk by some older companions, 
and while in that condition he had hurt one of them seriously, al- 
most fatally. For this crime he had fled to Texas. He had continu- 
ed to write back to his friends till his growing insanity made him 
too cautious. 

Our party camped along the creek-bank, near the Booth farm — 
all except the Groves family, who drove on over to the sheep-ranch. 
Frank and Stella, and also their father and mother, urged me to 
stay with them at least a week. But it was important that I get 
home for other reasons, and also to guide my caravan. One day I 
spent with the Booths, while the immigrants were resting their 
teams and doing some washing. 

Next morning early I took leave of my friends. Frank and I 
promised to visit each other if circumstances would permit; and 
both he and Stella promised to keep up a regular correspondence 
with me till we should meet at school. 

From here on I led the way, Lep tramping steadily before me, 
and the long, rumbling wagon-train strung out behind me. We 
camped one night at Lookout Gap, and I noticed that the spot of 
prairie that I had burnt to frighten the mountain-lion was green 
again — greener than the surrounding prairie. I had stopped at the 
settler’s south of the mountains to return the borrowed slicker, and 
further on I halted a minute at Kelly’s to leave his lariat. 


A CROOKED TRAIL 


183 


It was with no small measure of satisfaction, and even pride, that 
I rode down the Little Pecan Creek country late one afternoon, the 
long-horned object of my search in front of me, and twenty-three 
canvas-topped wagons bombarding the- stumpy road behind me. In- 
deed, my home-coming from that ox-hunt was an event long talked 
of, and still talked of, in our settlement. And the nearly twenty 
families I had brought with me made an important addition to the 
neighborhood. 

The wagons stopped and went into camp on Lick Branch. But 
I, with Lep still before me and Vic scampering delightedly around 
me, rode on over, went down the ,hill and crossed the creek to the 
house. That double log-cabin among the oaks looked good to me 
after my long absence. 

“Well, you did make a long trip of it,” was mother’s greeting, 
after I had dismounted and gone in. “We got your letters and pos- 
tal cards; but we had begun to think you and Lep would take a 
trip around the world before you got back.” 

Father shook hands with me and said, in his cheerful way: 

“Rather guessed you’d be showing up around here before many 
days. That’s the way. When you start after a thing stay with it 
till you get it. It seems, though, that you’ve brought back more 
than you carried off.” 

But even father, who had been through many exciting expe- 
riences in his younger days — cattle-driving, gold-mining and Indian- 
fighting — opened his eyes when I told him all that had actually 
happened to me on my long saddle-trip. For much had been omit- 
ted from my letters. 

Next morning I tied strings to a big sack, and the sack around 
my waist, and went to picking cotton. And very peaceful and home- 
like it seemed out there among the white-armed, deadened trees, 
with the stillness broken only by the songs of birds, or by the drum- 
ming of a woodpecker on a dead limb. The cotton was white in the 
rows, and all I had to do was to reach for it. There were no vexa- 
tious problems to solve as to how to get it out. 

On the whole I was very glad to be at home again. A life of con- 
stant excitement and adventure is far less pleasant than many 
stay-at-home boys imagine. In fact such a life is usually more in- 
teresting, and vastly more comfortable, to hear about or read about 
than to experience. 

When the cotton-picking was ended I yoked up Lep and Coaly and 
went to plowing in some of the richest, stumpiest ground that ever 
sprouted a cotton-seed or knocked the breath out of a plowboy. 

The new-comers were well pleased with the country I had led 
them to. They bought all the land that father had to sell, at a fair 
profit over what he had paid for it, and a few hundred acres besides. 
And they promptly set to work to build log-homes, and to clear 
farms out of the post-oak and black-jack woods. A few of them 
afterwards sold out and moved away; but most of them became 
substantial and prosperous citizens, and they and their children 
are still living there. 

The land that father sold was sold mostly cn time, but it practi- 
cally fre^d ~js from debt. And, thanks to that and a good cotton- 
crop the nejsit -eason, I was able to go away to school the following 
f dl. There I found three acquaintances: Frank Booth and his 
whom I had expected to find, and demure little Nannie Ren- 

‘o. whrso being there was a surprise to me. Nannie and Stella 
liad kept up a regular correspondence, and it was through Stella’s 
rifluence — and Frank’s also, perhaps — that Nannie had come. 

Both Stella and I remained in school till we had graduated, I one 
year and- she the next. 


MAR 4 I9G8 


184 A CROOKED TRAIL 


For a time I cherished some rather vague plans of going to West 
Point. And I even exchanged a few letters with Colonel Davis re- 
garding the matter. But my natural bent was toward books rather 
than arms, and before the time came to seek an appointment I had 
changed my plans. 

Doubtless I was aided in this decision by the president of the col- 
lege, who, because I learned languages readily, took occasion to in- 
timate to me before I had been in school very long that I could look 
forward to being a teacher. And even before my graduation he 
had offered me a position as assistant teacher of Latin and Greek. 
Eventually I became the teacher of Greek. 

Frank remained in school two years, then dropped out and him- 
self went to teaching, in country schools. Not long afterwards he 
married Nannie Renfro, who had also dropped out. 

But theirs was not the only wedding that grew out of our cattle- 
hunting trip. The next fall after her graduation, Stella Booth and 

Just at this point somebody, looking over my shoulder as I write, 
deftly removes the pen from my fingers. 

“But I don’t want you to tell people that you were hunting for a 
long-horned steer when you found me! I don’t want to be associat- 
ed with long-horns.” 

And when I explain that destiny, baiting me with a runaway ox, 
was really leading me on a hunt for the best wife in the world, she 
looks decidedly pleased, but is still not satisfied. 

“I don’t believe in destiny — much,” she declares, with some of her 
old-time independence. “Being the right kind of a man has more 
to do with finding the right kind of a wife than any old destiny that 
ever was.” 

And so, in deference to the wishes of the dark-eyed woman, I pass 
over, with this bare allusion, what might have been the most inter- 
esting chapter of my narrative. 

And doubtless that is as it should be. For this is the story of an 
ox-hunt, and not a romance of love and courtship and marriage. 
Hence what is best must be told in fewest words. 

For some reason Lep never tried to run away again. Perhaps he 
thought it useless to try. Possibly he felt that he had already 
made as big a stir in the world as one humble work-ox is entitled to 
make. He was kept hobbled much of the time till we fenced our 
pasture; and after that he remained inside. There, at a mature old 
age, he finally ended his useful career. And it has long been a matr- 
ter of sincere regret to me that his great horns were not preserved. 

The years run on apace, and swift changes come with them. The 
wild and half-wild region through which Frank Booth and I made 
our eventful saddle-trip is now crowded with farms and dotted with 
homes and towns and cities. And the frontier has practically dis- 
appeared. The lawlessness that we encountered was even then 
meeting law in clash of battle, and soon went down, never to rise 
again. Nowhere on the face of the earth, nerhaps, are life and 
property and reputation safer, or a law-breaker more unsafe, and 
nowhere is the cause of righteousness making swifter strides, than 
within the broad confines o# the broadest state in the Union. 

And the best is still to come. The things of today are better than 
those of yesterday. And the things of tomorrow shall, we can i'-'\ 
believe, by the aid of good men marching in line with and keep. 
step with the ever-marching providence of God, be better than tn ' 
things of today. 

(The End.) 


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